


Celandine

by stonecoldhedwig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All Sexualities, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, And then they fight some fascists, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexuality, Drink Spiking, Everyone fucks!, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Homosexuality, Intimidation, Kenmare Kestrels, Literally everyone - Freeform, Marauders, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Open Marriage, Open Relationships, Past Starbucks, Quidditch, Recreational Drug Use, Swingers, Trans Kingsley Shacklebolt, Violence, Wolfstarlene, blackinnon, dorlene, jily, swinging, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: James, Sirius and Marlene are regulars at The Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt's club for the discerning witch or wizard... and the home of Wizarding London's swinging scene. With the Ministry's new Department for Magical Morality threatening the club's existence, and the Quidditch team James and Sirius have just bought tanking in the league, Sirius could do with some distractions...Good thing he meets Remus Lupin, then.******Celandine, or swallowwort, symbolising joy to come.
Relationships: Dorcas Meadowes/Emmeline Vance, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black/Marlene McKinnon, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 38
Kudos: 39





	1. The Auror

As sex parties went, it was by no means the most extravagant that Sirius Black had attended. He could pluck any number of memories from his mind of miniature dragons breathing fire from the bar; of shimmering images of lithe witches and wizards shapeshifting as they danced in time to exotic music; of the sharp sting of liquor lapped from someone’s secret places, glittering in the half light, debauched and delicious.   
  
But tonight at The Auror—Kingsley Shacklebolt’s club for the _discerning_ witch or wizard—was casual. One of The Violet Thestrals’ old albums was playing through the overhead speakers, the familiar _thump-thump-thump_ of the bass a steady comfort. Sirius glanced around the room, noting how it was filled with far more familiar faces than usual. _Where were the new people when you wanted them?_ , Sirius thought, taking another swift sip of his gillywater and tonic. He glanced at the fairy-lights strung around the knotted, uneven wooden beams that supported the roof, the way that the steps up to the dance floor had been lined with _mimbulus mimbletonia_ , the plants swaying in time with the music. Tonight felt cosy, for want of a better word; it felt like stepping back in time a little bit to the moment when The Auror had been a monthly party in Kingsley Shacklebolt's living room.   
  
_Speak of the sorcerer and he shall appear_ , Sirius thought, as Kingsley swept over to him, a bedazzled purple robe slung loosely around his bare shoulders. He placed a swift kiss on both of Sirius’ cheeks.  
  
“Sirius Black,” he all but purred, his voiced mellow and lilting. “Been a while since I’ve seen you around here.”   
  
“The flighty temptress of business has taken me overseas, Kingsley,” Sirius replied with a grin, spreading his arms wide in a _what can you do_ gesture. “It’s good to be back.”   
  
“No Miss McKinnon tonight?”   
  
Sirius laughed and jerked his chin to one corner of the dance floor, where his girlfriend had her arms around the ebony curves of one Dorcas Meadowes. “Getting her fix,” he chuckled.   
  
"Ah, some things don't change, hey?"   
  
Sirius gave a good-natured shrug and took a sip from his drink. “Tell you what is new, though. James seems awfully chummy—“ he nodded towards where James was leaning against a wooden beam, talking to some redhead that Sirius didn’t recognise. “Want to fill me in?”   
  
Kingsley followed Sirius’ gaze. “Lily,” he said with a wicked grin. “Not long out of Hogwarts, and not long on the scene.”  
  
“Another novice?” Sirius nudged Kingsley with his elbow. “Where are all the old-hands, old man, who know what they’re doing?”   
  
“Who are you calling _old man_? You’re not far from thirty! Anyway, you want to count your blessings,” Kingsley chided with a chuckle. “When I was a young man, we only had Aberforth Dumbledore’s—“  
  
“Yeah yeah, you only had crumbly old Aberforth’s pub to hook up in. Change the record.”  
  
Kingsley let out an amused hiss, and took a sip of gillywater from the glass one of the bartenders had instinctively placed before him on the bar. He rolled the ice cubes around his glass, watching how they collided with each other and the sides of the glass.   
  
“It’s quieter at the moment,” he said eventually. “I think… well, I know the talk from the Ministry has people scared. Threats of _raids_ and _curfews_ , like that’s going to stop me.”   
  
“They try and close down The Auror, Kingsley, and I’ll fucking skin em alive,” Sirius replied pointedly.   
  
The two of them stood in silence for a few minutes, surveying the scene. Fabian Prewett was on the other side of the room, and Sirius contemplated going over; that _delicious_ night he’d spent with Fabian and Marlene a couple of months ago was still burning bright in the back of Sirius’ mind. Then, Kingsley spoke again.   
  
“The Doc was called in for questioning last week.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Pulled him right out of the Leaky Cauldron when he was trying to have a quiet drink and all.”   
  
“Merlin.” Sirius winced and put his empty glass back down on the bar top, gesturing lazily for the bartender to refill it. “He say anything?”   
  
Kingsley shook his head. “No, for all his faults, he’s a subtle man. Wasn’t going to walk in there and say _I’m Caradoc Dearborn, and I’m the one at Shacklebolt’s sex parties who can supply any kind of pill a person might want_ , was he?”   
  
Sirius thought for a minute. Admittedly, no matter how many times he’d bought from The Doc, he’d never seen him anything other than sober. No booze, no pills.   
  
“Anyway,” Kingsley continued, “I don’t think there was anything of interest to them out of that interrogation. The Doc looked a mess afterwards, though.”  
  
Sirius felt the bud of anger bloom in his chest. The Auror was _home_. It was the place where no one had ever questioned who he was, or what he wanted. It was the name whispered on all the lips of the queer Hogwarts students when they sought out someone’s company who might just understand, passed back-and-forth like some talisman that might just keep them going until they could step into its sacred halls and shed that skin of false pretence.   
  
“What the fuck do they want, anyway?” he asked angrily, swiping up the new drink that had been put beside Kingsley’s. “We’re not fucking hurting anyone.”   
  
“No, but we are free.” Kingsley’s mellifluous voice had taken on a cautious tone. “That’s always dangerous to people, Sirius. You know that, don’t you, with your family? They don’t hate you because you’re queer, they hate you because you’re _free_. Free to love unashamedly and unrestricted. Free to be honest, to honour yourself and who you are more than any faux sense of propriety. That’s why they hate us.”   
  
“What, so Fudge is just going to swoop in here with his raids and his curfews and think that it’s going to wipe queer wizards off the face of the planet?”   
  
Kingsley chuckled darkly and shook his head. “Fudge is just the front man. It’s all the rest of them—Voldemort, and the Malfoys, and all the rest of that lot. The ones who say that this is about morality, when really it’s about supremacy. You mark my words, they’ll start saying that queer magic wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for Muggles. We’ve got to fight that.”  
  
“And what happens if we lose?”   
  
“Regardless of what happens, at the end of all of it, I’m convinced there’ll be no gentle epilogue for them. None of them. They don’t deserve it.”   
  
Sirius smiled at his friend, his features softened from the sharp scowl he’d been sporting. Kingsley was a good man; the best of men. Father figure, mentor, protector. “We won’t let this story get to an epilogue,” Sirius insisted. He wrapped an arm around Kingsley’s broad shoulders and planted an affectionate kiss to his temple. “I promise.”   
  
Kingsley gave him a grateful smile. “Anyway,” he said, nodding towards the DJ booth. Sirius followed the gesture with his gaze to see John Dawlish, gesturing over with a grin on his face and a drink in hand. “Johnny’s calling.”   
  
"He looks like he's had about seven too many, and he's _definitely_ not doing anything with those records."  
  
Kingsley laughed; a broad, beaming grin that showed off a glittering gold tooth on one side of his mouth. He patted Sirius' chest affectionately. "Sirius, darling, he never does anything with the records. I've been with that man for nearly twenty years, and he's always been a terrible DJ. I charmed the turntable so it's not connected to the speakers, he's just never noticed..."  
  
Sirius guffawed as the other man waved, and wandered through the throng of people towards the DJ booth. The smile slipped from his face as Sirius watched Kingsley go. His heart ached—for Kingsley, for John, for the whole sorry mess. For this place that had welcomed him with open arms after he’d left the security of Hogwarts, the first place he’d come to understand as somewhere he could belong. The Auror made things easy. It made it easier for him to love Marlene, by giving him a place where he could find an outlet for all those desires that didn’t fit into the stereotypical boxes of _man, loving woman_ , regardless of how long they had been together or what they looked like to people on the outside. The Auror gave them both a place where they could breathe. It was the place that Marlene could envelop herself in Dorcas Meadowes’ embraces, and Sirius wouldn’t feel _jealous_ , because it was the place that had taught him how to curb that jealousy and temper it with joy.  
  
Sirius glanced back over to where James was leaning against the beam, still deeply engrossed in his conversation with the redhead—Lily, that was what Kingsley had said her name was. Sirius idly ran his eyes over James’ figure, paying attention—for once—to what he was wearing, the way he’d styled his hair. James was tall, solid like an old oak tree, with his long limbs and steady core. Very little about that had changed since they were teenagers, experimenting in the Gryffindor dormitories out of sheer boredom…  
  
Sirius shook that thought from his head, and turned. He could think about _James, undressed_ at any time; walk into James’ bedroom in their shared flat, if he really wanted, and bend his head to mark blooms across James’ collarbones like they were teenagers again. Sirius chuckled to himself at thought— _talk about bringing up the past._ It had been a long time since he and James had been involved like that…  
  
Sirius turned to pick up his drink again when he noticed a man he didn't recognise on the opposite side of the bar. He was young—Sirius estimated that he couldn't have been older than twenty—and sported a pattern of scars across one side of his face that almost took Sirius' breath away. He had auburn hair, which sat in unruly curls atop his head, and hazel eyes that were very firmly fixed on James. The look on the man's face wasn't irritation that James was chatting up this girl; to Sirius, it looked almost more like mild interest.   
  
The scars were curious. No, curious was the wrong word— _beautiful._ Yes, that was a better way of describing the raised lines that shimmered silver in the light of the bar, that seemed to draw a line right down the middle of the young man's face so that the left side of it was carved of ice and cut glass. Sirius felt the familiar heat pool in his chest, that sensuous desire that would spread around his body with every breath. He grinned to himself, leaving the glass of gillywater half drunk on the bar, and sauntered over.   
  
“You want another drink, or are you just going to nurse those ice cubes for the rest of the night?” Sirius nodded towards the empty glass that the man was rolling between his hands. He stopped, eyes snapping from where he was watch James and Lily to Sirius' face. For a second, a flicker of surprise seemed to dance in his features before he spoke.   
  
“It’s alright, I’ll—“   
  
“You sure? I’m ordering anyway.”   
  
There was a breath of silence.   
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Certain,” Sirius said. “Firewhisky, right?”   
  
"Please."   
  
Sirius signalled to the bartender, who walked over. He ordered a gillywater, neat, and a firewhisky on the rocks, studiously schooling his face into something casual. He didn’t want to look at this young man with his fascinating face and his long fingers and his round, short vowels that sounded so _different_ to Sirius.   
  
Sirius paid up and slid the glass of firewhisky over, before reaching out a hand to introduce himself. “Sirius Black.”   
  
“Remus Lupin.” The young man's handshake was firm, but not overly so; not one of those men who wanted to _prove_ things before he'd even set foot in the bedroom, Sirius thought.   
  
"Don't think I've seen you around before," he said.   
  
“Don’t think you have.”   
  
The conversation flowed lightly between them, easy and natural—if only for the fact that Remus asked most of the questions and Sirius answered them. Sirius would push back a little, try and find out what Remus did— _bit of this, bit of that_ —or where he was from— _lived in London for a while now_ —or something that might give Sirius some clue about who this deliciously mysterious creature before him was. But, to no avail.   
  
Eventually, Sirius finished his gillywater, and leant a little closer to Remus. "So," he murmured, "seeing as you've successfully avoided all my attempts to get to know you, perhaps you'd like to cut straight to the point and we can head upstairs so I can... show you the ropes."   
  
"Bold of you to assume I don't know what I'm doing."   
  
“Baby boy, I know a novice when I see one,” Sirius said slowly. Mirth danced in his eyes as he looked at Remus. “You want to come upstairs?”   
  
Remus let out a low chuckle. "Are all your chat up lines like this?" He raised his eyebrows at Sirius, taking a long sip of whisky. "Are they all so... forced?"   
  
"Forced?" Now it was Sirius' eyebrows that shot up. "Do you know, in all my years of fucking about here, I don't think I've ever heard that."   
  
"That's because everyone here is old and probably uses the same chat up lines too."   
  
"You little shit," laughed Sirius. And fuck if this wasn't refreshing, this tete-a-tete. As much as The Auror was great, Sirius did miss the opportunity to spar like this, to dance round someone unknown and uncharted.   
  
The song that was playing above them came to a close, and there was a pause in the music. It felt like the room was holding its breath, as though all of them were eavesdropping on this little conversation, until the familiar chords of Elphius Brazenbeak sounded above them, and the rich vocals rang out.   
  
_What's the use in knowing all your secrets? Never wanted more than just an hour or two with you..._  
  
"Yeah," Remus muttered, reaching out and running the pad of his thumb across Sirius' lips. "I'll go upstairs with you then, Sirius Black."  
  
The sensation made Sirius stir in his boxers, and all he could think about was replacing that thumb with Remus' cock, letting it slip across his lips until they were slick with pre-come before taking it in his mouth. "Ok," he muttered against Remus' thumb. "Ok."   
  
Sirius usually would have made some comment about the people on the dancefloor parting like the waves when they walked towards the little door at the back of the room, so innocuous, and yet promising so much. But he couldn't form those words; he couldn't find either the sarcastic quip or the dirty joke that would fill the silence that hummed between them. Remus, for his part, seemed utterly unfazed.   
  
As they passed Marlene and Dorcas, the blonde looked up. Her eyes flicked between Sirius and Remus, and she almost _purred_. “Have fun.”  
  
Sirius grinned wickedly. Part of the deliciousness of this was Marlene’s permission, her unequivocal _yes_ that said he could play with who he wanted to. He winked at her, before sliding his hand into Remus' and pulling the other man towards the door.   
  
The staircase behind it was narrow, a twisting thing that was only wide enough for them to walk one-at-a-time, climbing higher and higher into the bones of the building. Sirius could feel Remus' heartbeat in his palm as he reached behind him to keep their hands clasped; the thought of all that adrenaline rushing through the younger man made Sirius feel on fire. Then, Remus spoke, distracting Sirius from counting out the rapid pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips.   
  
“You know her?” Remus asked. "The blonde."   
  
“My girl,” explained Sirius.   
  
“Oh.” There was something in that tone that sounded... not disappointed, Sirius thought, but _disapproving_. They had reached the top of the staircase and ducked through the archway. Now they were side-by-side, he glanced out the corner of his eye at Remus. The scars really were fascinating; now he was closer, the patina across his pale skin almost looked regular, intentional.  
  
Sirius bit back the urge to ask about the scars. Instead, he raised his eyebrows at Remus. “Lots of couples here. I thought you brought your partner? Redhead, talking to my mate.”   
  
“Lily?” Remus laughed. “She’s a friend, definitely nothing more."   
  
"Why were you looking at her like that then?"   
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know, like you wanted to sleep with her. Like she was yours."  
  
"I wasn't looking at her like she was mine," scoffed Remus, "I was looking out for her. Anyway, are you sure your girl doesn’t mind you coming upstairs with me?”   
  
“Glaciers melt into the same oceans they rise up from,” shrugged Sirius, knotting his fingers a little tighter with Remus’ as they walked along the upstairs corridor, past a couple wantonly fucking against the wall. “Marls and I always find our way home.”   
  
They reached the end of the corridor, and Sirius grinned. The little light outside his favourite room was glowing green in its bracket. He paused, and turned to Remus. "You been up here before?"   
  
Remus shook his head. Sirius opened the door in response, and beckoned him inside.   
  
It was like stepping into a pocket of the night's sky. The room was almost entirely covered in midnight blue velvet—so dark it bordered on black—and covered in a glittering embroidery that mapped out the intricacies of the constellations. _Aquila_ to _Delphinus_ to _Lyra_ to _Hercules_ , each tiny detail of the stars and planets woven into the fabric that covered the walls and ceiling. Sirius heard Remus take in a breath of awe as the two of them made their way into the room, the door shutting behind them with a soft thud.   
  
"Cool, huh?" Sirius asked. He led Remus towards the bed in the centre of the room, pausing momentarily to point to a cluster of stars. " _Canis majoris_. That's my constellation."   
  
"Did you seriously bring me to this room so that we could fuck under your own namesake? That's bold."  
  
Sirius chuckled, and pointed to another constellation. "No, you dickhead, I just like it in here. Anyway, we'll be fucking under your constellation, too—that's the Lupus constellation. That's what your name means, doesn't it? Remus Lupin. Wolf."   
  
Remus let out a small noise—perhaps agreement, Sirius wasn't sure. He was staring hard at the Lupus constellation, eyes flicking from star to star.   
  
"So," Sirius said slowly, circling back round Remus with a look on his face that could only be described as _hungry_. "How about we talk about how to make this first time something to remember?"  
  
“It’s not my first time,” Remus scoffed and returned his attention to Sirius.   
  
“Why so tense, hmm?” Sirius stood behind him, slipping his hands onto the other man’s shoulders and gently rolling the muscles between his fingers. He leant forward to place a soft kiss on Remus’ neck, grinning into his skin when he heard Remus let out a gentle moan. “It doesn’t matter if this is your first time or not, we’re still going to talk about boundaries.”   
  
Sirius stepped away from Remus and stood there, waiting for an answer. And really, he meant it—if Remus decided that he didn't want this anymore, then Sirius would stop, would walk him back down the stairs to the bar and buy him another drink, would introduce him to Kingsley and to Fabian. The Auror was a place that did away with those rules that said in order for someone to give, another must take; the parity of individuals, the rich bloom of an enthusiastic yes—that's what dictated the space and the people in it.   
  
"Alright," Remus said finally with a slight smile, "I'm here to fuck, not to get to know you."  
  
" _Oof_ —" Sirius clutched at his chest and feigned hurt as he slipped his feet out of his suede shoes. "Ok, big man, I get it. No idle chitchat. Anything else?"  
  
Remus shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm a simple man with simple tastes—arguably verging on boring. You?”  
  
Sirius shook his head. "No such thing as boring," he said. “We use protection charms, obviously. No daddy kinks, no pain play, no watersports. And look, Remus, I'll be honest with you, all I really want to do is go down on you.”  
  
“And in return?”  
  
Sirius laughed, watching as Remus ran a hand over one bicep. “Er, that’s not how this works for me. I don’t expect. Call it a kink, if you will, but this really isn't transactional.”  
  
Remus narrowed his eyes in slight disbelief. “You’re telling me you’re willing to give me a blow job and… you don’t want anything in return? At a sex club?”   
  
Sirius barked out another laugh. “Remus, it’s not that I’m just willing. I want to. Very much. But only if you want me to, obviously.”   
  
Remus reached out a hand, gathering up the fabric of Sirius' shirt in his fist. "You'll have to shut up if you want my dick in your mouth," he said mildly.   
  
Sirius didn’t bother answering that. He bent his head to press his lips against Remus', to run his tongue across them and feel the way the patina of scars on the left side bled into the soft pink skin. Remus released his grip on Sirius' shirt, instead threading his hands through Sirius' dark hair, pulling lightly at the strands and making Sirius groan against him. This man was infuriating, if only for the fact that he seemed to know exactly what it was that got Sirius going. The play fighting, the aggressive back-and-forth, the way he didn't expect Sirius to reduce himself to some giggling giddy stereotype, or vice versa.   
  
Sirius pulled back, an amused frown on his face. "Are you always this salty, by the way? Because this is some of the most aggressive flirting I've ever experienced, and I'm not saying I'm not into it but—"  
  
Remus rolled his eyes. "Do you ever stop talking? Get on your knees, Black."  
  
Sirius, for once, did as he was told. He manoeuvred Remus towards the bed, pushing him into a sitting position. His hands made light work of Remus' belt buckle, his button, because this was what Sirius was desperate for; his hands shook with adrenaline and excitement as he lowered the zip on Remus' trousers over where his erection strained against the fabric. Sirius palmed him over the material of his boxers, delighting in the way a whimper escaped Remus' lips. He thought about teasing the other man a little more, making him wait, perhaps even making him beg, but Sirius was too greedy for that now. He moved Remus' boxers, the other man canting his hips up for Sirius to slip them down.   
  
And _Merlin_ , Remus was packing. Sirius tried hard not to let out a surprised—albeit joyful—chuckle, because Remus really was fucking divine like this. Instead, he bent his head and after muttering a quick protection charm, kissed lightly against Remus' shaft, teasing him with soft ministrations until he was leaking, breathing heavy.  
  
Sirius took Remus in his mouth, slowly. He relished the noise of the soft inhale that Remus took, the way his chest and stomach jumped with the rush of air to his lungs. Sirius fucking loved doing this, bringing someone to their knees until they were quaking, begging, all because of his mouth. He teased his tongue around the tip of Remus' cock, humming in delight at the taste of pre-come.   
  
" _Fuuuuck_ ," Remus groaned, running his hand through Sirius' hair almost absentmindedly. "That feels so fucking good."   
  
Sirius looked up through long eyelashes at him, grey eyes meeting hazel. He knew he must look filthy like this, with his eyes still full of that arrogance that they always were, while his mouth was full of Remus' cock. Really, the effect it had on Remus was self-evident—he went slack-jawed when their eyes met, a rich and throaty groan emitted from his open mouth.   
  
Sirius began to move faster, one of his hands coming to tease at Remus' balls, massage them gently between his fingers. He took Remus further into his mouth, knowing that the pressure and the heat and the wetness was driving him wild, because Sirius knew he was good at this. He'd _always_ been good at this; taken to it like a duck to water, really. And he was in his element like this, with Remus' cock in his mouth and the other man groaning and grinding beneath him, growling out a litany of _fuck_ and _Sirius_ and _Jesus fucking Christ_. Sirius moved his fingers to press against that magic little spot behind Remus' balls, and was rewarded with a wanton groan that seemed to reverberate all the way from Remus' chest down to Sirius' mouth.   
  
Then, he was coming in hot ropes into Sirius' mouth. The salty tang hit Sirius' tongue and he greedily drank it down, craving the taste over and over again because it was so fucking good. Even better, though, was the rush of _Sirius_ from Remus' mouth; a brief vulnerability that made Sirius' hairs stand on end and his stomach turn over in delight.   
  
Sirius sat back and looked at Remus— _looked at his handiwork_ —with a feral grin. Remus looked fucking undone; shirt rucked up, cheeks flushed, only highlighting that delicious set of marks that Sirius wanted to adorn with his own, scrape his teeth against and pull red and purple bruises from the skin. One of Remus' auburn curls had fallen forward onto his forehead, and Sirius thought he looked fucking beautiful; like some god in one of those Muggle paintings— _Pre-Raphaelite_ , that was it—that Sirius loved so much.   
  
He lifted a hand and wiped his mouth with the back of it. "Good?" he asked.  
  
Remus let out a laugh, the lightest laugh Sirius had heard from him all evening, and panted. "What the fuck do you think?"  
  
"I think," replied Sirius slowly, as he placed his hands on Remus' thighs and moved his thumbs gently back-and-forth, "that I didn't do too badly for an old man with forced chat-up lines."  
  
Remus laughed again and stared up at the ceiling, wide-eyed and grinning. Sirius stayed where he was, continuing with the little gesture with his thumbs, waiting for Remus to ride the crests of these waves of pleasure.   
  
For Sirius' part, he was fucking hooked. He couldn't stop looking at Remus like this, all those layers of sarcasm and careful confidence pulled back until Remus was revealed, unburdened, undone. The scars across the side of his face glittered a little more— _glowed_ , almost—and Sirius wondered for not the first time that night whether they were the result of magic or of misadventure.   
  
After they had sat in silence together for a few minutes—comfortable, easy silence, it must be said—Remus glanced back down at Sirius. He cocked his head to one side. "You sure this is all you want?"   
  
"Positive," Sirius affirmed, pushing himself off his admittedly-aching knees and stretching. He slipped his feet back into his suede shoes, and moved lazily to lean over Remus, pulling from him a long, slow kiss. Sirius knew that Remus could taste himself on Sirius' tongue, and the thought of that made him almost shiver.   
  
"Heading back to your girl, are you?" asked Remus, and Sirius couldn't tell if there was bite behind the words.  
  
"Maybe," Sirius hummed and nipped at Remus' jaw. "Maybe going to find someone else, see where the night takes me."   
  
Remus chuckled. " _Maybe_. Lot of things tied up in that maybe, it sounds like."   
  
Sirius stood again. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rolled his shoulders lazily. “I see you're a pretty face and a mind-reader, apparently. Don't think too hard on _maybe_ , kid, it won't do you any good." He wandered to the door, and glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Maybe I’ll see you around here again, Remus Lupin.”   
  
Remus gave him a wolfish grin from the bed. "Maybe you will, Sirius Black."   
  
Sirius didn’t hang around long once he was back downstairs; he felt that need to be home, to tell Marlene _everything_ about tonight. He glanced around the still-packed room, trying to spot her mop of wayward blonde curls. Nowhere to be seen, he approached the bar, sliding up alongside where Dorcas Meadowes had just ordered a drink. If Marlene wasn't with Dorcas...  
  
“Marls not here?” he asked Dorcas.  
  
“Headed out,” she replied with a smile. “Hell of a woman, your girl.”   
  
“Don’t I know it,” winked Sirius, giving Dorcas a kiss on the forehead. “You need me to walk you home or anything?”   
  
Dorcas shook her head, gesturing over to where a leggy brunette was chatting to Kingsley. “Emmeline and I will take the Floo, don’t worry.”   
  
“Mmkay. You two should come over and have brunch one weekend or something.”  
  
Dorcas laughed. “Look at you! All grown up, inviting us to brunch like you didn't fuck my girlfriend last month.”  
  
"If that's a disqualifying factor for brunch, then I dread to think what the impact will be of you fucking _my_ girlfriend for the past eighteen months."   
  
"Get out of here, you arsehole," chuckled Dorcas with a light slap on Sirius' arm, "before I tell your girlfriend you've been sassing me."   
  
Sirius said his goodbyes to the others on the way out—Kingsley, with his arm around John and talking to Emmeline; Fabian Prewett looking awfully cosy with Benjy Fenwick by the bar. As he approached the exit, he noticed Caradoc Dearborn standing near the door, puffing clouds of violet smoke out of his trademark pipe.   
  
"You alright, Doc?" Sirius asked, and Dearborn turned. He had a look on his face as though he was surprised to find himself not entirely alone.   
  
"Sirius Black! I'm alright, old pal, how about you?"   
  
"Never better," grinned Sirius. He stepped to one side as a gaggle of witches walked into the club, and caught Dearborn's arm. "Hey, Kingsley mentioned they picked you up last week. Questioned you."   
  
Dearborn rolled his eyes and let out another plume of glittering smoke from his nostrils. "Fuckers picked me up out of the Leaky last Monday. Kept me in an interrogation room at the Ministry for six fucking hours—I missed my pick up with the Finnegans because of it, so I'm all out of Doxy Drops."   
  
"Who was it?"   
  
"Oh," Dearborn chuckled darkly, "at least they did me the courtesy of sending someone important to ask me questions." He stuck his nose in the air and put on an affected tone. "Lucius Malfoy, _Head_ of the Department for Magical Morality."  
  
"Wanker," muttered Sirius. "You're alright though, yeah?"   
  
"Of course," Dearborn grinned. "They threatened to suspend my Healers' license, of course, but they've been threatening me with that for years. All because I won't work out of St Mungo's. Well, that and the fact that I'm supplying to the seventeen-year-old kids of half the Ministry, but I'm not sure _they_ know that for certain."   
  
Sirius laughed, and clapped Dearborn on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Doc."   
  
"You too, kid."   
  
Sirius stepped out of The Auror, looking left and right. Then, with a sharp turn on his heel, he vanished. 

* * *

Sirius stood under the shower for a long time—half an hour, perhaps, maybe longer—and relished the way the water pounded hard against his back and shoulders. He'd charmed the shower the day they moved in, joking that Marlene liked to be physically assaulted by the pressure every time she stepped under the water. Once clean, Sirius rolled his head from side-to-side under the stream one last time, and reached for his towel.   
  
He felt like he always did when they came back from The Auror—steadied back into equilibrium. It was the best thing he and Marlene had decided to do. Their early years had been electric and passionate and jealous, and utterly, utterly exhausting, because they loved fighting as much as they loved making up.   
  
That said, Sirius and Marlene were always going to end up together. That's what James would say when he teased them; he'd say that they both just enjoyed making him suffer as third wheel. But really, Sirius knew there was a kernel of truth under the joking—he and Marlene were the sort of people that couldn't help but be drawn together, some kind of gravitational pull that meant they simply couldn't keep away. She was tornados to the heat of his fire.   
  
It had started casually—Sirius wondered if there was any other way. He'd sneak down to the common room in Gryffindor Tower when he couldn't sleep, folding himself up on the hearth rug and staring into the dying embers of the fire. Sirius had never asked how Marlene had known he was there; it was seventh year, and he was angry all of the time, and there had been something so good about the way she would come and sit behind him, wrap her arms around his chest and press soft, slow kisses to the taught muscles of his shoulder blades.   
  
After a while, of course, it had progressed to her sitting in his lap, one hand at the back of his neck and the other carding through his dark hair. He let his grey eyes slip closed, mouth going slack at the sensation, because he'd never felt more loved than the moments when Marlene didn't seem to need to say anything, just needed to be there, with him. And in being loved—as is so often the case—Sirius learnt to love in return.   
  
That was nearly ten years ago, of course. Now they had a flat that they shared with James, and they strolled hand-in-hand down Diagon Alley on Saturday mornings together, and they fucked other people. Some things change, and some things stay the same, Sirius thought.   
  
Sirius tiptoed into the dark bedroom. He noticed her damp towel piled on the floor, and smiled—she'd never change, he thought, as he picked it up and hung it over the radiator. He padded to his side of the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping under them. Marlene lay with her back to him; her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep, and Sirius almost decided to forgo the usual routine of waking her to tell her he loved her.   
  
“Hi,” Sirius murmured against the exposed skin of Marlene’s shoulder, where her night shirt had slipped to reveal constellations of freckles. She stirred a little beneath him.   
  
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice soft with sleep. “Did you have fun tonight?”  
  
“I did,” whispered Sirius in return, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around Marlene’s waist. He could smell the apple scent of her shampoo from her still-damp hair mingling with the sandalwood soap on his skin.   
  
“Who was the guy?”   
  
“Remus Lupin,” Sirius replied, stifling a yawn. “Not long around, apparently. Came with the girl Jimbo was chatting to.”   
  
“Redhead, right?”   
  
“Yeah, that’s the one.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad it was a good night,” yawned Marlene, rolling over so she and Sirius were face-to-face. Sirius looked down at her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush to his chest.   
  
“I love you,” he murmured. He bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, feeling as ever the gentle sparks of fire in his stomach as their lips met; dulled, a little, by sleep, but nonetheless there and real and _his_.   
  
Marlene hummed. “I love you too.”   
  
“Forever?”   
  
“Forever.”


	2. Peregrine Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and James head to the Peregrine offices, but not before Sirius has had a letter from darling Walburga...

Sirius woke with the sun the next morning, a shaft streaming through the gap in the curtains and straight onto his face. He groaned. A glance at the clock on his beside table told him it was _0632_ —not really enough time to go back to sleep before he had to be up for the day. _Damn it_ , he cursed, and squinted over at Marlene. She shifted, burying herself under the covers a little more so that the only thing poking out the top of the duvet was her mess of blonde curls. _Alright for some_ , Sirius thought.

He knew himself well enough to be certain he wasn’t going back to sleep. It was often like this the morning after a trip to The Auror; too much adrenaline still murmuring under his skin, perhaps, or too great a desire to sit and talk with Marlene, reach across the table and take her hand in his, reroot himself in her. Either way, Sirius knew that what he needed right now was _coffee_ , and lots of it, and so he convinced himself to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. With one final glance over his shoulder at the still-slumbering Marlene, he wrapped his dressing gown around him and headed in search of caffeine. 

The cold tiles under Sirius’ bare feet made him wince and take a short, sharp breath as he stepped dow into the kitchen. _So fucking early_. He was looking forward to his hot mug of coffee so he could wrap his hands around it and leech it of its warmth. On the counter, Sirius noticed a half-empty bottle of fire whisky and a glass— _James_. Sirius chuckled; that was either the sign of a good night, or something to drown his sorrows when he got home. Only one glass, though, which made Sirius wonder if his best friend hadn’t managed to get further than the bar with the redhead…

With a lazy wave of his hand, Sirius directed the espresso pot from the shelf to the hob, the lid springing open as it soared through the air. He carefully poured the coffee grounds in—the last time he'd done it by magic, he'd been _somewhat_ overzealous—and added the water. With a snap of his fingers, a flame flickered to life beneath it, and the kitchen began to fill with the rich aroma of Sirius’ favourite Colombian roast.

"Thank Merlin for coffee," Sirius muttered. 

Espresso being brewed, Sirius leant against the counter and let his eyes drift idly around the room. He loved this kitchen, with its black and white floor tiles and the scrubbed pine table he and James had salvaged from a Muggle skip on a night out. He loved the old inglenook fireplace on the opposite side of the room where Marlene hung mistletoe and bouquets of fairy fever at Christmas, the flowers glowing silver and gold like orbs of light. This is where they hosted their legendary dinner parties, too many bodies squashed in around the table, thighs pressed against each other as they rested their elbows on the already groaning table. The same table where they had sat when James’ parents died, drinking endless cups of tea and only the litany of _I’ll make another pot_ to break the silence. It was where they’d sat with their arms around James as he put his head in his hands and sobbed. 

The whole flat told stories like that. It had been cheap. Like, _really cheap_ , mainly because it had been in such a state of disrepair when James and Sirius bought it that the previous owner had offered them all the furniture in the place "as a thank you for buying it." Its layout was, frankly, absurd: stairs where there shouldn't have been stairs; a door that led to precisely nowhere; a strange little turret that held two rooms sandwiched on top of each other. They’d spent long nights renovating after work, back when James was still a sports reporter at The Daily Prophet and Sirius had been a buyer for Nimbus. 

Nowadays, the place looked unrecognisable from that first time they stepped into the front door. The strengthening charms and _reparos_ had done wonders, of course, but James and Sirius had learnt a curious thing in the course of the renovations,. The Muggles, it seemed, knew a thing or two—that there was nothing quite like finishing something by hand, nothing like sanding and polishing floorboards until they were smooth and shining. In many ways, that felt like magic, too. 

Marlene was the one who could take credit for the decor. She hadn’t even been living with them when they moved in, but after taking one look at the mouldy sofa Sirius and James _also_ found dumped on the street in the Muggle part of London, she had insisted they let her help. To Sirius’ amazement, Marlene— _his_ Marlene, with all her skittishness and her chaos—had a hell of an eye for style. She found artwork in strange little shops in Knockturn Alley, draped luxurious fabric around the windows, and procured them a beautiful sofa that her parents had decided to replace. James and Sirius had only partially been joking when they told her that once her Quidditch career was over, she ought to start a design business. 

The whistle of the espresso pot drew Sirius from his thoughts. He decanted the hot, rich liquid into his favourite mug—an old Gryffindor one from the year when they won both the Quidditch and the House cups. James liked to top the espresso up with hot, foamy milk and two sugars, Marlene with extra hot water, but Sirius was a purist. He wanted short, strong, hot and black. _The Kingsley Shacklebolt of coffees_ , Marlene had once joked. 

Sirius sipped on his coffee as he climbed from the kitchen back into the hall, and up the wonky little staircase that led to the turret. James had the lower room—it was plastered with Quidditch posters, filled with books on strategy and biographies of famous players. Whoever he ended up with, Sirius would tease, she’d have to be ok with coming second in James’ mind to broomsticks and Quaffles and the beautiful game. They managed other things than the Quidditch team, but the game was James’ first and greatest love.

_The Quidditch team_. That was what played on Sirius’ mind as he emerged from the stairs and into the top of the turret, into his office with its views across the whole of London. He and James had bought the team recently, when then last owner was caught _in flagrante delicto_ with a merman and a squid, and needed the cash to cover his legal fees. The Kenmare Kestrels hadn’t been a top team in the league for some time, but the couple of months since the purchase, things seemed to be going from bad to worse… 

“Morning, beautiful,” Sirius murmured, reaching out a hand to pet his large tawny owl, Fiera, as she sat on her perch. He was rewarded with an affectionate hoot and a gentle nip at his fingers. Sirius crossed the room and opened one of the skylights for her, in case she needed to stretch her wings, and then settled at his desk. 

There was still yesterday’s post to be opened. He’d barely had a minute to eat after work before they’d been expected at The Auror, so he’d not got round to dealing with it. The first letter on the pile was sealed with red wax, a lion motif roaring silently in relief against the background—he knew _that_ seal. Sure enough, when his letter opener sliced through the parchment and he opened up the scroll, it carried an invitation to the Gryffindor Alumni Club annual reunion. Sirius gave a feral grin. He thought about the previous year’s party—it was held over the summer, when all the current students were away for the holidays. He and Marlene had taken great delight in returning to all their old haunts around the castle to fuck wantonly—his old dorm, the secret passageway behind the one-eyed hag, the curious little room on the fifth floor which was barely big enough for the two of them, and only contained a rather garish lemon-coloured sofa… They’d then returned to a significantly more raucous party in the common room to drink neat gillywater and dance on the windowsills, before instigating a shrieking run down to the Black Lake to skinny dip under the stars.

"That's an absolute yes," grinned Sirius,  and snatched up his quill. 

He fired off a quick RSVP and sealed it. The next letter was his bill from the Doc—purple ink on the back of what seemed to be an old page torn from a copy of The Quibbler. For a man who was so very _odd_ , Sirius mused as he scanned the invoice, the Doc sure as hell knew how to make money… The prices had increased since the last time the Doc had billed them for the usual order of an eighth of dried Alihotsy leaves for smoking, and the special treat of a handful of Doxy Drops, but Sirius couldn’t blame him. All the movement at the Ministry, this new department for _magical morality_ —it made people scared, and scared people didn’t turn up to The Auror to buy from the Doc. Sirius wondered idly about the other suppliers while he counted out coins into a little velvet coin bag—if the eminently well-connected Caradoc Dearborn was struggling, who the hell was buying from them? 

Sirius went cold when he saw the final parchment resting on the desk. He reached out a shaking hand and then paused, hand hovering in the air, fingers trembling. He knew that handwriting. He knew the loops of the L’s and the strong crosses on the T’s, because he wrote his own in an almost identical manner. After all, his mother had insisted on that. 

Sirius swallowed. His hand was still poised in the air. _What would it be this time?_ What accusation would come from her poison pen when he unfurled that parchment, the cursive on the page twisting and turning like a vipers’ nest of green ink. It had been the same since Sirius had been disowned, since he left—it was hard to remember which was the chicken and which was the egg in that regard, and which came first in that sorry charade. Every few months, without fail, it was the same—some letter from Walburga reminding Sirius just how much of a disappointment he was to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

_Enough of this_ , Sirius thought. He snatched up the parchment, barely glancing at the green wax seal on the back; he knew it would be embossed with the family crest, his mother’s initials imprinted below. Unrolling the parchment with shaking hand, he scanned the brief, terse letter: _I thought you should be informed of the news that your brother is engaged to be married. After your betrayal, we might finally restore some dignity to the name of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black._

Sirius grimaced. _Regulus_. He hadn’t seen or heard from his brother in nearly three years, not since the almighty row they’d had that resulted in Sirius needing a trip to St Mungo’s… Regulus had vanished afterwards—all Sirius had heard on the grapevine was that he was in France. Was he back in the country, or was this fiancée some long-lost French cousin to keep up with the family policy of continually downsizing the gene pool? 

It surely couldn’t be someone from London. Sirius ran through a list of pureblood women in his head, categorising them neatly into _likely_ and _unlikely_. Cousin Bellatrix, she’d married the Lestrange heir; the younger Lestrange was engaged to Alecto Carrow, so she was out of the running, too. Cousin Narcissa had married Lucius Malfoy, so no dice there, either. One of the Bulstrodes? _Surely not_. Sirius shuddered. The only one of even a remotely appropriate age was Penelope, a year younger than Regulus, and she had a face like a horse and the manners to match…

Sirius sat for a while, nursing his cup of coffee and thinking hard. Why would his mother—wretched being that she was—think to write to him about _this_? Admittedly, it was news, but Regulus was a grown man, and more than capable of telling Sirius this himself if he wanted to, that he’d got engaged. Then again, that phrase _restore some dignity_ —that suggested that maybe the reason behind Walburga’s missive was simply another opportunity to remind Sirius of what an infernal disappointment he had been. 

An hour or so later, the sound of voices floated up the stairwell and drew Sirius from his thoughts. The laughing and indecipherable conversation meant that James and Marlene were up, and that meant more coffee, and breakfast, and eventually dragging themselves to work. With a last look at the parchment on the desk before him, Sirius snapped his fingers, and the paper was alight, burning in amber and gold until all that was left were ashes on the desktop. He vanished them with a wave of his hand, and descended the stairs. 

“Morning, champ,” James said thickly through a mouthful of toast when Sirius stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later. 

“Morning,” replied Sirius. He wandered over to where Marlene was pouring coffee. “Any left for me?” he asked and wrapped his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder. 

“The horrible dregs at the bottom, I’m afraid.” 

“God, you know how to treat me,” Sirius grinned and proffered his cup. Once it was full, he pecked Marlene on the cheek and turned. 

On the cooker, a saucepan of porridge was bubbling away, the wooden spoon stirring by itself. It was a smell that was so very _home_ ; it was Marlene’s breakfast of choice before a long day of training, or James’ preferred snack when he came home from his amateur Quidditch league games, muddy and soaked to the skin and _happy_. 

“I saw you getting up close and personal with that redhead last night, Jem,” grinned Sirius, taking a sip of his coffee and sliding into one of the chairs around the scrubbed pine kitchen table. “You have fun?” 

James rolled his eyes and kicked out a leg. “I _wish_. Rosmerta rocked up not that long after you disappeared upstairs, and we ended up having a huge fucking fight.” 

“Again?” winced Sirius. 

“Yeah. I’m telling you, she’s crazy about—“

“No,” Marlene said forcefully, crossing her arms. She was looking at James with distaste. “She’s not _crazy_ , James, she’s mad because you guys insist on doing this stupid on-again-off-again thing with no real communication about your relationship. How long has it been? Two years? Wouldn’t you be pissed if the person you’d been seeing wouldn’t fucking _articulate_ what they wanted after all that time, and instead just fucked you about all the time? If you want her to stop being _crazy_ —“ Marlene punctuated the word with air quotes— “then _tell her what you want, whatever that is._ ” 

There was a breath of silence, a moment of pause, before James spoke. 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re right, aren’t you?” 

“I’m always fucking right.” 

Sirius let out a bark of a laugh at Marlene’s comment. 

“It’s not like you guys,” James said, pouting a little. “I didn’t find the love of my life at sixteen or whatever.” 

" _Or whatever_ ," Marlene echoed with a roll of her eyes. She poured more hot water into her coffee, and circled the table to slip into Sirius’ lap. “Didn’t think he was the love of my life, did I?”

Sirius grinned wickedly. “Definitely didn’t think she was the love of my life. Marlene McKinnon, my forever girl? Not a chance. All I knew at the time was that she was fucking infuriating, and that turned me on. So, then again, I guess not much has changed.” 

James laughed while Marlene gave Sirius a less-than-gentle clip round the ear. “Fucking rude.” 

“It’s why you love me,” Sirius teased. “Sadly, though, as much as making fun of you is my absolute favourite way to start the day, Jimbo and I should probably go to the office and do some semblance of work before one of our players bankrupts the club or something.”

Marlene slipped from his lap and went to tend to her porridge. “You shouldn’t joke about that, it’ll come back to haunt you,” she said mildly. 

James frowned in earnest. “That’s the problem, Marls—he’s not joking.” 

* * *

83 Diagon Alley was am unassuming navy door, sandwiched between numbers 78 and 104—because Diagon Alley had never really been a logical place. In fact, it was such an inconspicuous entrance that one would be forgiven for missing it entirely. If a passerby _did_ notice it, and happened to step forward to investigate, they would have found a small brass bell with a note spello-taped underneath it: _bell not working—shout quite loudly, or come on in._ Beside it, a matching brass plaque read _Peregrine Games - Messrs. Potter & Black. _

James and Sirius had founded Peregrine Games fives years earlier, when James’ father died and left him the four Abraxans and three Granians that he’d owned. Fleamont Potter had essentially let the horses and their riders do as they please; they’d won a few minor races, nothing special. James, however, had seen an opportunity for he and Sirius to make something for themselves, and jumped at the chance to take the horses to a higher level. What followed were some fairly good wins, along with Sirius winning a prize fighting Skrewt in a poker game—the details were hazy and, frankly, James hadn’t pressed it—and soon the pair realised quite what they could be in the world of Wizarding sport. James had given up his job writing for the sports section of the Prophet, and Sirius his rather dull one working as a buyer for Nimbus, and they had started their adventure.

Well, it had been an adventure. That was before they bought the Quidditch team, Sirius thought bitterly as he chewed on his lip and looked down at the Healer’s report on the desk in front of him. Four of the Kestrels had come down with a bout of fairy flu, and another one had tested positive for powdered erumpent horn—a stimulant that was _definitely_ a banned substance… 

Sirius scrubbed his hands over his face. They were about a Knut away from bankruptcy, five of the first team couldn’t play, and there was a grudge match that weekend against the Tutshill Tornados that would decide if they were to be relegated. _Fuck_. Sirius looked up at James, who was frowning down at the day’s newspaper, seemingly oblivious to the problems that surrounded them. 

Owning the Kestrels had really been James’ dream. Sirius would have been happy to stick to managing the racehorses, maybe picking up a few more fighting Skrewts or a dueller in the WDE—the World Duelling Elite. But the opportunity had arisen to buy the team, and the look on James’ face had been the happiest Sirius had seen since his parents died. 

Sirius sighed and looked back down at the report. They needed a shake up, and Sirius thought he had an idea. Frankly, no team was going to thrive when their head coach was as flaky as the Kestrels’; Mundungus Fletcher wasn’t exactly what one would describe as _reliable._ He’d come with the team, and James had insisted they give him a chance. Kind, as James always was, Sirius thought, but utterly naive in this regard; Mundungus needed to go, and fast. There might, however, be a solution to that—Sirius had heard on the grapevine that the Montrose Magpies had a falling out with their head coach over his refusal to agree to the team’s suggestion of hexing the Wimbourne Wasps prior to a match. A Gryffindor a couple of years ahead of them, the coach had been an unlikely Quidditch star: short and stocky, and one of the best beaters the League had seen. So, Sirius thought, if Peter Pettigrew was going to be in need of a job, then they might just be in a place to offer him one…

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_.”

Sirius’ head snapped up at the sound of James’ voice. His face was obscured by the newspaper, but he was gripping the pages so tightly that Sirius could see his knuckles going white. Sirius frowned. “What?” 

“Another op-ed from that fucking Voldemort guy.” 

Sirius let out a snarl. He sat back in his seat as James dropped one side of the newspaper and looked at him indignantly. “Who reads this crap and agrees with it?” asked James, eyes flashing. 

“More people than you would think,” Sirius replied. He made a resigned _give it to me_ gesture with his hand. “Come on, what nonsense this time?” 

“ _I recently had the pleasure,_ ” James read, “ _of attending a reception at the Ministry of Magic_ —of course he did, despite the fact he’s never been elected to anything. _While there, I spoke with Lucius Malfoy, the head of the new Department for Magical Morality. Mr Malfoy assured me that the department is not a temporary measure to placate those of us concerned by the Ministry’s direction, but very much here to stay. The implication, of course, was that so is Mr Malfoy._ ”

“I cannot believe Narcissa married him, of all people,” Sirius sneered. “He’s a puffed up peacock. Cissa was alright when we were kids—well, as far as anyone in my family can _be_ alright.” 

“Well,” continued James darkly, “she isn’t alright now she’s married to old Lucius. Listen to this: _moreover, Mr Malfoy wanted to make clear the sympathy he has with our cause, and the agreement he has with our ideas—that magic is sacrosanct, and that we must protect it from any deviation that might threaten our society’s continued existence._ ” James threw the newspaper down on the desk. “What does that even mean?”

“It means that they think queer wizards are a threat to society, that we’ll somehow stop the wizarding world from procreating, so we might have to— _God forbid, Jimbo_ —repopulate it with some Muggles.” 

James snorted. “Being queer isn’t going to stop me procreating when the time comes. I’m just not done sowing my wild oats yet.” 

“Eh,” Sirius teased, waving his hand, “you’re only an occasional bisexual. I think you’ll be alright under the Sex Police State.” 

James threw a pencil at Sirius, laughing. “Rude, I’m as bisexual as you are. Rather comes with the territory of being one another’s first time.” 

“Point taken,” Sirius said with an incline of his head. He leant forward onto his elbows, propping them on his messy desk. “However, there are more pressing things at hand right now. The Kestrels.”

“I know, I know,” James groaned, pulling another pencil from where it was tucked behind his ear and spinning it around in his fingers. “Things are going from bad to worse, aren’t they? I read the Healer’s report.” 

“Well then,” replied Sirius conspiratorially, “you’re going to want to listen to this. I think I’ve got a plan that might just save our hides…” 


	3. The Kenmare Kestrels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Sirius attend a very damp Kestrels game... and find out why their team's been quite so abysmal.

The weather was, to put it mildly, foul. A fog had rolled in during the night, and when Sirius and James had apparated into the Irish morning, it had almost immediately started to rain. It was the sort of rain that drenched you sodden to the skin; it burrowed itself into your marrow and left you with that dulled kind of cold. If it had soaked Sirius and James in the time it took to walk from the apparition point to the clubhouse, James could only grimace at the thought of what it was doing to the Kestrels players, high up in the air. 

The Dell—the Kestrels’ home ground—was on the shores of Kenmare Bay, a little way away down the coast from the town. It was nestled among a dense woodland, built into the sides of a natural bowl in the earth, a gap in the canopy of trees above giving way to wide open sky. Muggles were easy to keep away: some signs about unstable earth, some good repelling charms, a proper series of apparition points. Once upon a time, The Dell had been the stadium on everyone’s lips; it was the place where legends were born, where the Kestrels had earned a reputation for being hard, fast, brutal players. _Once upon a time_. Things were different now. 

James stood in The Dell’s top box with his hands in his pockets, tapping one foot as he looked out onto the pitch. Half time, and they weren't losing anywhere near as badly as he'd expected; that said, they were still losing. They’d lost young Angus Maddock to a bludger in the seventeenth minute, the chaser crumpling on his broom and falling to the earth with a sickening crunch. It was only a broken arm and a concussion—he’d be fine for the next game—but it was a real shame. They’d signed him barely weeks before. His father had played for the Magpies, back in the day, before he developed an unhealthy affection for Muggle sporting techniques… 

“Here you are,” came a voice from behind him, and James tore his eyes away from where the rain was turning the pitch into a veritable swamp. He turned to see Sirius clutching two goblets of mulled wine. Marlene wasn’t with them; wasn’t allowed to be there, as a player for the Harpies. She’d given Sirius a peck on the cheek before they left the flat, ruffled James’ hair, the usual routine. _Lucky bugger_ , James thought, picturing her cosied up at home. 

“Get that down you, it’ll warm you up,” continued Sirius, thrusting a goblet at James. 

“Thanks, mum.” James took the goblet with a cheeky grin. He wrapped his hands around it and breathed deeply the smell of cloves and cinnamon. 

Sirius snorted and sipped his own drink. “You know me, desperately maternal.” 

James said nothing in reply, taking a gulp of the wine and feeling the way the heat of it pooled in his stomach, radiating into his chest and making him feel _warm_ for the first time all day. He sighed. With a glance at Sirius, who was also surveying the pitch, he finally spoke. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?” 

Sirius gave a half-hearted shrug, scanning the field again. “Don’t count your dragons before they’re hatched. Peter Pettigrew’s here—I just literally walked into him talking to Mad-Eye Moody.” 

“You sent him that owl inviting him to the match, then?” 

Sirius made a face and shook his head. “That’s the thing: with everything that’s going on, I didn’t get round to it. Here’s here of his own accord.” 

“What does that mean?” James frowned.

“I don’t know.” Sirius took another thoughtful sip. “It might be a good thing, and he’s thinking about approaching _us_ with regard to the coaching job. Mundungus _obviously_ hasn’t turned up, the lazy fucker.” 

James grunted in disapproval. “What about Moody, though?” he asked. “What’s he doing here?” 

“You tell me,” said Sirius with a puzzled look. “I thought you invited him.” 

“Me?” James laughed. “Not half likely! Why would I invite the scary ex-Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports? You know he creeps me out. More than that, you also know that he _loathes_ me from when I ripped into his new protocols for Skrewt fighting when I was writing for the Prophet.” 

Sirius looked at James. He was clearly thinking hard, a deep crease appearing between his brows as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. Then, with a glance over his shoulder at the assorted press and season ticket holders in the box with them, he bent his head closer to James’. 

“Then we have a problem,” Sirius said stiffly, his mouth barely moving. “If you didn’t invite him, and I didn’t, then who the fuck did? It’s not like this is the top of the league and he’s been given a ticket as a bloody birthday present, is it?” 

“What are you saying?” James hissed. He had gone cold again, despite the mulled wine. “You don’t think he’s here as a—I don’t know, as a favour to Fudge or something? Checking up on us in case we’re a threat to wizarding morality?” He rolled his eyes. “Our membership at The Auror is somehow worse than our terrible Quidditch team?”

Sirius shook his head. “Nah, Moody was ousted, remember? Wouldn’t bring in that code of conduct into the league last year when they started up the stupid Magical Morality thing. He’s _persona non gratis_ as far as Fudge is concerned.” 

“Well—“ 

James was interrupted by a commotion behind them. He and Sirius turned to see the flash of lime-green Healer’s robes pushing through the group of photographers who were trying to file down the stairs towards the bar. Tall, lanky, with rich Yorkshire vowels and a tendency to swear like a sailor, Frank Longbottom had once been a Gryffindor star chaser. He was kind-hearted, with a quietly wicked sense of humour that made him the perfect Healer for the Kestrels. 

Today, however, Frank’s face was thunderous as he approached James and Sirius. He yanked his robes straight with a heavy grunt. 

“Frank?” James asked, unused to seeing the Healer look so irate. “What is it?” 

“Spiking,” spat Frank, “he’s been fucking _spiking their pre-game pumpkin juice._ ”

“What?” frowned James. “What are you talking about?” 

Frank gestured for them to follow him, turning on the spot. Soon enough, he was shoving his way back through the crowd and hurtling down the stairs two-at-a-time. James glanced across at Sirius, who made a face as though to say _I don’t fucking know either, pal_. 

“Right,” James muttered, taking off after Frank as fast as he could. 

The staircase down from the top box was narrow, the wooden beams on either side prone to giving splinters if you ran your hands too quickly over them. James winced as he felt the familiar feeling of wood piercing skin. His mind turned over and over as they moved— _he’s been fucking spiking their pre-game pumpkin juice_. It wasn’t like Frank to be evasive; if anything, he was too forthright, too blunt. 

James reached the bottom of the staircase, eyes still firmly fixed on Frank up ahead and Sirius close on his heels. The corridor was full with people who had come in from the stands to find shelter from the rain, which had turned from drizzle to outright downpour over the first half of the match, and made the viewing unpleasant to say the least. James spied Amos Diggory on one side of the throng and gave him a half-hearted grin; Amos had been a colleague when James was still at the Prophet. If it weren’t for the more pressing issue of _what the fuck was wrong with Frank_ , James would have stopped to chat.

That said, they had things to attend to. James spotted Frank reach the end of the corridor and turn a sharp right. He frowned. There was a steep little set of stairs around that corner, which led to precisely two rooms: a broom cupboard, and the coach’s office. _Mundungus’ office._ Casting a look over his shoulder at Sirius, who was still holding his cup of mulled wine and desperately trying to drink it, James ploughed on.

They eventually made it through the crowd and down the staircase, with Sirius’ mulled wine the only casualty. The door to Mundungus’ office was open. Frank was pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath, and he looked up when they walked in. 

“You’re not going to believe this.” 

“Frank, what the hell is going on?” Sirius growled, fishing for his wand to deal with the large red stain of wine down the front of his pale blue shirt, spreading out like blood on crisp linen. Both James and Sirius looked at the Healer expectantly. 

“I made a comment about Mundungus,” frothed Frank, standing in the middle of the office, “when I was checking on Maddock’s arm. Said I was sorry that his coach wasn’t there to check up on him. He gives me this shrug, tells me he’s not seen Mundungus stick around for a game all season. Just comes into the changing rooms while they have their pre-game pumpkin juice, tells them to try their best, and then fucks off.”

“Pardon?” 

“It got me thinking,” continued Frank, all but ignoring Sirius’ interjection. “Why the fuck does a team that performs perfectly well in training suddenly play like they’re first year remedial flyers? Hmm? I came down here to think, to look around—I don’t know, to do _something_!” 

Frank made a frenetic gesture with his hand in the vague direction of Mundungus’ desk. It wasn’t exactly a tidy surface—there were papers strewn across it, tins of Wizard Snuff, something crumpled that looked frighteningly like old socks. 

“So then I looked in his desk—we all know Dung’s about as smart as a fucking baby giant, where else would he keep it?—and I found _this_.” Frank held up a small, battered notebook, the brown leather marked with water stains. He threw it onto the desk and gestured at it. “Open it.” 

James did as he was bidden. He picked up the notebook, feeling the weathered material beneath his fingertips, the way it crackled a little as he opened the cover. In front of him—in smudgeless pencil, James would bet, based on the condition of the notebook—were a series of notations: times, dates, names, numbers. He peered closer at the nearly-illegible scrawl and began to read aloud.

“Magpies… eleventh of September… two doses. Wasps… twenty-first of September… seven doses. There’s three pages of entries like this!” James looked up, wild eyed. He gesticulated with the notebook. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is?” 

Sirius snatched the book from James’ grip and flipped it open again. He frowned down at the scrawl. “Doses?” he asked gruffly. “Doses of _what_?” 

“Snarfalump root,” Frank barked, stuffing his hand into the pocket of his robes and pulling out a little vial of pale blue powder. “It’s a sedative. Usually prescribed for insomnia; you make a tonic of it. But a little pinch in your pumpkin juice—“ he gestured with the bottle— “and you’re foggy-headed and bleary-eyed and definitely not on your game. At such small quantities, you can’t really detect it, which would be why we’ve not picked up on it in the pre-game tests. I found this in Dung's desk, too.”

There was silence in the cramped office as James and Sirius stared at Frank. The reality of the situation hung heavy in the quiet: Mundungus Fletcher, their _coach_ , had been spiking the players.

“Powdered erumpent horn,” murmured James as he took the vial from Frank’s grasp. 

Sirius frowned. “What?” 

“Powdered erumpent horn,” James repeated, looking at him. “Mulligan tested positive for it, remember? I thought it was weird—he was a Hufflepuff, always does the right thing. I guess if you’ve spent your days addled by fucking snarfalump root and you don’t know it, you’d try anything.”

The three men looked at the vial in James’ hand. The powder glittered despite the dimness of the room—Mundungus never opened the shutters—and seemed to emit a mesmerising, pulsating kind of light.

“I’m going to kill him,” Sirius said, standing stock still for a minute before beginning to pace frenetically. “I’m going to find that greasy, two-faced, no-good son of a bitch and I’m going to—“

“Sirius,” James added darkly. Out the corner of his eye, he could see the open door, and the shape of someone—or something—hovering in the corridor outside Mundungus’ office. “Later.” 

With a subtle wave of his hand, James wordlessly sent a spell that shut the door with a sharp _click_. He turned back to the other men, catching Sirius’ eye and causing him to pause his pacing. Understanding passed between them. _If this got out before they were prepared to deal with the consequences…_

“Tell no one,” urged James, looking back at Frank. “Do you understand me?”

Frank went the colour of beetroot. “What do you mean, _tell no one?_ ” he hissed. “It’s my duty as a Healer to protect my patients; I can’t just let them run the risk of being fucking spiked again.” 

“We’re not asking you to do that,” Sirius said softly. He slipped the notebook into the inside pocket of his jacket and patted it. “Dung’ll come back for this. When he finds it missing, he’ll scarper; he’ll know that we’re onto him and that he’s not welcome anymore. He won’t be back again. The team are safe from the next game.” 

“So, what? You’re just going to let him get away with it?” 

James shook his head. “No, no, of course not. We just… we need to handle this delicately. Get our owls in a row, you know?”

“No,” Frank quipped, scoffing, “I actually don’t know.” 

Sirius leant back against Mundungus’ desk and tapped his foot impatiently. He let out a great sigh. “Look, Frank,” he said, “we have about three sponsors still willing to stick with us. The club will collapse if they find out about this; James and I will lose thousands. _Your_ career will be ruined, Frank; they’ll take your license, make you work graveyard shifts in the St Mungo’s morgue if they think you oversaw a team where the coach was spiking the team and you didn’t notice.”

Frank looked apoplectic. “It wasn’t that I didn’t notice! I ran all the tests, the quantities aren’t—“

“ _We know_ ,” soothed James, patting Frank’s arm, “that’s the point. _We_ know you’re a good Healer. We want to protect you.”

Frank was quiet for a minute or so, eyes narrowed as he clearly thought over the gravity of Sirius’ words. Eventually, he let out a deep and despairing sigh and slumped down into a vacant chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “What are you going to do?”

“Gather the evidence,” replied Sirius slowly. “Gather the evidence, and do this properly. Make sure that slimy git gets nowhere near the Quidditch industry ever again. Take him to court, expose him for what he is. Right now, though, we’ve got bigger problems than Mundungus Fletcher.” 

“What could be a bigger problem than your coach drugging your team?” exclaimed Frank. 

“Well for starters, are we going to continue this game if we know that they’re all off their tits on snarfalump root?” Sirius crossed one foot over the other. He shoved his hands into his pockets. 

James shook his head wildly, a rush of breath from his mouth sounding like a strangled chuckle. “If we call the game, we’re a Kneazle’s whisker from relegation, Sirius.” 

“We’re a Kneazle’s whisker away, anyway!” Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “And moreover, the bigger problem than Mundungus Fletcher is who the hell is paying him. This isn’t Dung fixing matches so that he can make a pretty penny—the wizarding bookmakers aren’t allowed to take bets from coaches, players or owners.” 

“The legitimate ones, anyway,” interjected James. 

“What?”

“The legitimate bookkeepers,” he explained. “Who knows when it comes to the shady ones?” 

Sirius let out a hum under his breath. James watched him, watched the way his eyes darted back and forth and crease between his brows deepened. They’d been best friends for so long—two halves of one whole, Marlene called them—and yet sometimes James wondered if he’d ever really understand what went on in Sirius’ head. He wanted an insight into the way thoughts seemed to roll into Sirius’ mind like sea mist, intangible wisps that became impenetrable. 

“Well then,” Sirius replied finally, “I suppose we’ll have to make a visit to Uncle Alphard, won’t we?” 


	4. Telling Marlene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and James return from the Dell, and Sirius debriefs with Marlene.

“How was—“

“It was fucking wanking shitting shit, darling.” 

Marlene stared open mouthed at Sirius’ back as he brushed past her, straight towards the drinks cabinet on the other side of the sitting room. It wasn’t like him to take things out on Marlene; they’d grown out of that habit a long time ago, or so she thought. 

James, at least, had the decency to look apologetic and squeeze Marlene’s wrist affectionately as he followed Sirius into the room, only to stop dead. 

“I think I’m gonna have a shower, actually,” James said a little awkwardly, giving a long look at Sirius’ turned back. He turned and smiled at Marlene. “Pads can fill you in on why the game was so, er, _fucking wanking shitting shit_.” 

Marlene chuckled and patted James’ shoulder as he walked back towards the door. Her eyes, however, never left Sirius, who still had his back turned to her. Marlene knew what it meant when Sirius held himself like that—like he hid tension and anger and potential explosion in the taught muscles of his neck and shoulders. It was only once they heard the click of the door shutting that he seemed to deflate a little. 

“You want to tell me what happened?” asked Marlene cooly, wandering over to the drinks cabinet to stand beside Sirius with her arms crossed. “Or are you just looking for someone to have a go at?” 

Sirius looked at her out the corner of his eye. Marlene could see a vein pulsing in his jaw, and she reached out to run her fingers lightly over it. The only thing to break the silence between them for a few minutes were the sounds of the street below—the corner of Diagon Alley, bustling with life even late on a Saturday afternoon, with street stalls erected and hawkers calling out for passersby to buy their goods. _Sugar Quills! Three for a sickle!_

“Mundungus Fletcher,” said Sirius finally, and Marlene’s fingers stilled against his skin. 

“Eh?” she frowned. “That’s what’s got you so upset, your flaky coach?”

“More than flaky, actually. Turns out he’s even more of a good-for-nothing scumbag than I thought he was: he’s been spiking the pre-game pumpkin juice.” 

Marlene let out a bark of a laugh before she could stop herself, hand dropping to her side. “What? You’re joking.” 

Sirius shook his head. “I wish I was.” 

That made Marlene’s blood run cold. The Harpies hadn’t played the Kestrels this season; they’d not been drawn in the same pool during the group stages, and now the Harpies were sitting comfortably at third in the league and the Kestrels at the bottom, there was no chance they would again. But to think that if things had been different, if there had been one more goal at a match, or ten more minutes looking for the Snitch at another… she could have been at The Dell, drinking pumpkin juice spiked with Merlin knows what by Sirius’ coach. 

“Have you—are you—“ Marlene floundered for words for a moment. “Have you reported him? Told, I don’t know, the Ministry about the fact that your coach has been fucking spiking your opposition?” 

“No, Marls, not the opposite team. _Our team_.” 

Sirius turned away from her as Marlene stared at him. _What the fuck did that mean?_ Thoughts raced around Marlene’s mind as she watched Sirius reach for a glass, his hands shaking. That wasn’t like Sirius: he had an infuriating capacity to be so very _contained;_ he inhabited the world with a kind of effortless, elegant grace. Whatever was going on had to have been seismic. 

Marlene ruminated while she waited for Sirius to make his drink, his signature cocktail. The ‘Dress Robe’ called for sparkling shards of Cornish pixie sugar, muddled with Flitterbloom bark bitters; the dark droplets spread so very satisfyingly through the pale crystals. Then, topped with a healthy dose of Ogden’s firewhisky and a slice of orange, it was the drink that Sirius could be seen clutching at pretty much any party they hosted. 

“Sirius,” she said finally, resting her hand on his arm. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

Sirius sighed and finally looked her in the eye, grey constellations meeting clear blue skies. He nodded, looked down at his drink, and took a sip. Then he spoke. “We were in the top box—weather was fucking miserable, as you’d expect—and it’s half time, right? I’d got Jimbo and I a glass of mulled wine, because frankly, I was hoping that getting absolutely slaughtered might make the second half of the match more bearable than—“

“Sirius.” 

“Right, right, sorry,” he nodded apologetically. “So we’re up there in the box, and who had I just run into in the corridor on my way back than Peter Pettigrew?” 

Marlene frowned in confusion. “The Magpies coach?” 

“The very same,” Sirius said. “Funny thing is, I’d meant to send him a letter this week, asking him to come to the game, but I hadn’t got round to it. You’ll know by now that he’s been ousted from the Magpies; nothing stays quiet in the Quidditch world. Anyway, he was talking to _Mad-Eye Moody_ , which makes this whole thing even weirder.” 

Marlene shut her eyes and held up her hands. “I’m sorry, I am _so_ confused. Start again. You get some mulled wine at half time, and on your way back, you run into Peter Pettigrew talking to the ex-Minister for Magical Games and Sports?”

Sirius nodded, eyebrows raised. He gestured with his glass. “Weird, right? Anyway, I was speaking to Jim about it because neither of us invited them, when there’s this big fuss behind us. Turn round and Frank Longbottom’s there, looking like he’s swallowed six fiery salamanders. To cut a long story short, we go down to Dung’s office and Frank whips _this_ out—“ Sirius pulled a cracked notebook from his pocket— “and reveals he’s found powdered Snarfalump root alongside it.” 

Marlene took the notebook from Sirius, turning it over in her hand. It was barely bigger than her palm, the brown leather stained with watermarks and some dark red-brown splatters that Marlene desperately hoped were ink. Cracking the spine revealed three pages of meticulously detailed notes: figures, dates, names. 

“Fucking Merlin,” she breathed, staring down at the pages. 

“Fucking Merlin is right, darling,” replied Sirius dryly. He turned and walked away from Marlene, slumping down into the soft cushions of their large leather sofa. 

Marlene followed. “I don’t understand, why would he drug his own players?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sirius raised an eyebrow cooly as he took another sip of his drink. “Someone’s making a pretty penny out of my Quidditch team going to shit. Dung is, if that notebook’s anything to go by, but there’s someone else as well. I’ve got enough enemies, and I suppose that’s my own fault. It’s a process of elimination at this point.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“I’m going to have to go and see Alphard,” Sirius said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Who the hell else is going to know where to start?” 

Marlene said nothing, perching onto the sofa arm beside him and taking his hand in hers. It was probably the worst kept secret in Wizarding society that Alphard Black ran London’s most _refined_ crime syndicate. She didn’t know if he was a bad man—Sirius had never been effusive about what _kind_ of crime Alphard was into—but she knew from what Sirius had told her that he wasn’t, at least, a cruel one. Still, anxiety gnawed at her insides at the thought of Sirius stepping back into the murky world of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. 

“Are you sure you can’t go to the Ministry?” Marlene asked. “I guess it’s Magical Law Enforcement, right? Or Magical Games and Sports.” 

Sirius gave her a look that bordered on cold, and Marlene felt a slight flicker in her stomach of humiliation combined with irritation. He knew she hated it when he looked at her like that. 

“I’m not exactly _welcome_ at the Ministry, am I?” asked Sirius cooly, standing and wandering over to lean against the mantlepiece, warming himself by the fire. “Do you really think that’d go down well, me just turning up there to confess that my players have been drugged by their own coach? Should I send that owl before or after our date tonight at the sex club they’re trying to close down, darling?” 

Marlene stood to join him, raising her eyebrows. “Mm, I love it when you’re salty like this. Really sets me up for the evening, you know?”

Sirius chuckled bitterly and nodded. “Ok, you’re right,” he conceded, glancing down at his nearly-empty cocktail glass, “that _was_ salty.” 

“Just a touch.” 

Sirius placed his glass on the mantlepiece and pushed himself off it, strolling languidly across to where Marlene was standing by the arm of the sofa. He slipped his hands around her waist, grip just firm enough to let her know exactly what he meant, and leant forward to ghost his lips over her cheek. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured into Marlene’s ear, and she felt the familiar jolt of electricity in her stomach as his breath made the hairs stand up on her neck. 

Marlene was about to reply with a sarcastic quip when an idea came to her mind; a wicked, filthy, _excellent_ idea. She stepped back from Sirius and placed her hands lightly on his chest. She cocked her head to one side and gave him a shove. “Sit.” 

Sirius raised his eyebrows, but did as he was bidden. “What are you doing, McKinnon?” 

“ _You_ are making it up to me, Black.”

“ _Oh_.” 

Turning her back on him, Marlene sauntered over to the drinks cabinet. She could feel Sirius’ eyes boring into her and she relished in it. Sirius was a man who, for all his posturing and his pretence at control, revelled in never quite getting what he wanted. She knew that about him, because she knew it about herself; maybe that’s what had started things between them, all those years previously—a game they had played where no one was quite sure which one of them was cat and which was mouse.

Marlene poured out a healthy dose of firewhisky into two cut glass tumblers, adding ice cubes to hers and a dash of water to Sirius’— _just how he liked it_. She turned, a glass in each hand, to see Sirius staring at her from the sofa with dark clouds of lust in his eyes. His feet were planted wide, as though he was staking claim to this little bit of kingdom.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Is my punishment just that I’ve got to watch you walking round the sitting room drinking my very expensive firewhisky?” 

Marlene grinned wickedly and walked back towards him. She offered the glass of whisky to him, and Sirius took it, eyes never leaving hers. Then, having deposited her own glass on the coffee table, she grinned wickedly. Eyes locked on Sirius, and in one smooth motion, Marlene pulled her top over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and despite the fire roaring in the grate, the exposed rosebuds of her nipples hardened in the cool rush of air. 

Sirius’ jaw went slack, eyes dark with desire. “Nice to see you were ready for me to come home,” he said finally, letting his gaze drip over her like honey. 

“You think this is for you? Please,” scoffed Marlene, “you know I only put a bra on for important things.”

“Touché.”

Marlene walked forward. Eyes locked on Sirius’, she slipped daintily into his lap. His hand went instinctively to her waist; the hairs on her skin rose as some sharp spark of electricity seemed to jump between them as they touched. Marlene’s resolve almost crumbled; frankly, there was nothing she loved more than feeling Sirius Black’s hands ghosting over her skin, movements becoming more and more desperate until he left marks for her to charm away the next day with a smirk. 

As Sirius’ fingers crept up the smooth plane of her stomach, and with every ounce of self-control, Marlene shook her head. “Hands off,” she said, her voice sharp. “You only get to watch.”

“Marls,” Sirius groaned, “darling, can—“

“Uh-uh.” Marlene shook her head. “You don’t get to be an arsehole to me _and_ get what you want. This is me teaching you a lesson.” 

Taking a sip of her firewhisky, Marlene lifted her hand and rolled her nipple gently between her thumb and forefinger. Sparks of pleasure jumped in her chest, in the low of her stomach. She gave a soft moan. 

“Marls, I swear on Merlin’s favourite—“

Sirius was interrupted by the sitting room door swinging open, followed by a yelp.

“ _Merlin, Marlene, put your goddamn boobs away!”_

Marlene roared with laughter as Sirius jumped at the noise and slopped half his drink over himself. James stumbled back out of the room again, yelling about _the sitting room being a communal place._

Sirius muttered a hasty drying charm over his shirt and looked up at her. There was no hiding what she saw in those eyes; he was hungry, desperate, ready to devour her. The thought of it sent another jolt of electricity pulsing down her spine. 

“You,” he said firmly, gathering her up in his arms so they were chest-to-chest, pressed into each other so that their breaths matched and their hearts almost beat as one, “are coming to bed with me.” 

“Well then,” replied Marlene, “lead the way.”


	5. Regulus Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marlene, Sirius and James go to The Auror... and there's unexpected guests.

That Saturday evening, the Auror was packed. Sirius was surprised by the number of bodies pressed into the club, considering how quiet things had been earlier in the week. Then again, the cabaret nights always drew in a large crowd; Kingsley joked that cabarets were the only things that kept The Auror afloat. Only, sometimes, Sirius wasn’t sure he was joking. 

The last performance had been Amelia Bones—buxom, beautiful Amelia, with that voice like honey and lips the colour of red apples. Sirius had smirked into his gillywater as he watched her, remembering the night after the Christmas cabaret the year before when he, Marlene and Amelia had stayed at the Auror until closing time, Kingsley shooing them out as he directed chairs onto tables with a flick of his wand. They’d been drunk on elf-made wine and a magnum of Veela champagne. He’d wanted to kiss them both at once in the flurry of snow outside the club, only to turn and find them locked in one another’s embrace. 

Sirius remembered, too, how later that night as the three of them tumbled into bed, those candy apple lips left stains on the fair skin at Marlene’s hip, long lines of red carnations up the inside of her thigh. He’d locked eyes with Marlene as some movement of Amelia’s head—russet hair spilling over Marlene’s legs—made her gasp. Any jealousy that might have bloomed in his chest seemed to float away like petals to the earth at the sound of Marlene’s moan moments later when she watched Sirius press forward into Amelia. 

There’d been plenty of nights like that, when some unexpected connection had been made with someone, and the three of them had fallen into bed together with a spark of electricity that wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —be dimmed. 

That Saturday felt like it could be another of those nights. The club was filled with a warm, amber light; its patrons bathing in the glow that smoothed their rough edges and made everyone look beautiful. Marlene had left Sirius by one of the standing tables, promising to be back swiftly with ice cold drinks; gillywater for him, firewhisky for her, and if Sirius knew anything about Marlene, probably a shot of something wretched, too. 

As he waited, Sirius glanced round the club. It was a good mix of people—new faces intermingled with the old. Hestia Jones, Marlene’s old flame, was on the other side of the bar, deep in conversation with someone Sirius thought was called Elphias; she glanced up and caught his eye as he looked at her, giving him a cheerful wave. He smiled back—she and Marlene hadn’t ended acrimoniously, after all. 

Beyond Hestia and Elphias, Sirius spotted a familiar cloud of glittering violet smoke. He smirked. Caradoc Dearborn, his pipe hanging out one corner of his mouth, had his arms around two young women Sirius had never seen before. They looked new—and young, too, Sirius thought wryly. The Doc wasn’t usually quite so overt when it came to the people he entertained at the club; what was it Kingsley had said about him earlier in the week? _For all his faults, he’s a subtle man_. Then again, Sirius mused, even subtle men need moments of exhibition. 

The person Sirius couldn’t see as he dragged his eyes away from the Doc and his companions, however, was Remus Lupin. He frowned, eyes flitting about the club. No sight of the redhead, either—although, considering James had disappeared almost as soon as the cabaret finished, Sirius supposed that she and James could have finally managed to slip away for some privacy. Lupin, too—he could have met someone, crept through the door to the stairway and up away from view. That was his prerogative, wasn’t it? Still, Sirius couldn’t help but feel a slight jolt of disappointment at the fact that he couldn’t spot that wayward auburn hair, that he wouldn’t be able to apparate home with Lupin on one arm, and Marlene on the other. 

Sirius was pulled from his contemplation by a flash of blonde, curly hair. Marlene made her way back from the bar, drinks clutched to her, and Sirius couldn’t help but smile. The sight of her made that old delicious burn rise in the base of his neck. She was wearing a camisole that frankly bordered on indecent—some scrap of a thing made of lace and satin—and had that glow about her that she only got when she’d been well and truly fucked, hair cascading in those foaming blonde waves across her shoulders. Actually, Sirius thought with a wolfish grin, it was a glow that she only got when she’d been well and truly fucked _by him_. After James’ ill-timed interruption, he’d spent the afternoon doing just that. 

“One gillywater, neat,” Marlene said, thrusting a glass at Sirius. She shook her blonde curls back from her face and took a gulp from her own glass. “It’s fucking _rammed_ tonight. Change from Thursday night, hey?”

Sirius nodded. “Yeah, cabaret’s always good for business.” 

“Where did Jem get to?” 

“I want to say he’s gone to sort out whatever the fuck he’s doing with Rosmerta,” chuckled Sirius, sipping his gillywater, “but something tells me he’s more likely off to find the redhead, finish what he started.” 

“ _Finish what he started_?” Marlene repeated incredulously. “Have you met him, Sirius? He’s never finished anything in his life.” 

Sirius barked out a laugh. “You know what I meant. I agree with you, though; he needs to end things with Rosa if there’s a new girl on the scene. I don’t think they’re… good for one another.” 

“Understatement of the fucking century. Do you remember when we were all snowed into that cottage in the Highlands for a weekend and all they did was argue and have hate sex?” 

Sirius grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Then again, we used to be pretty shitty to each other, remember?” 

“Were we ever that bad?” 

“Oh yes, one hundred percent. We might even have been worse.” 

Marlene’s eyes—glittering like cut glass—met Sirius’ pale grey. He knew they were thinking the same thing. After they’d left Hogwarts and moved into the real world, their relationship could hardly have been termed _functional_. It was late nights drinking too much firewhisky, tongues and teeth clashing as they ripped at one another’s clothes, pressing each other against the wall of the Leaky Cauldron’s bathroom, or against Sirius’ front door. He’d snarl at Marlene about the way she’d been looking at another guy in the bar, jealousy clawing at his rib cage like some creature desperate to be unbound. In response, Marlene would hiss back about him being controlling, about the fact that she could leave him any time she wanted to. 

Or, it would be messy break ups after refusing to speak to each other, some he-said-she-said spat that had evolved into days of the silent treatment, finally culminating in some raging argument where Sirius would shout and Marlene sobbed. Then, there’d be the slinking back into the other’s bed a few days later—if he was honest, Sirius knew he was the one who did the slinking more often than not, because Marlene had always had more resolve than him. 

It had been James who introduced them to the scene, strangely enough. One afternoon, when Sirius and Marlene were tentatively back together again after an absolutely mammoth argument, the three of them sat round the table in the boys’ kitchen. They’d just told James that they were giving things another go, promising that this time, it would be different. 

James had raised his eyebrows with incredulity. “This has to stop, you know,” he’d said mildly. 

“What does?” Sirius replied, voice gruff. 

“This—“ James gestured between the two of them with his mug of tea— “all this shouting and breaking up, all the jealousy and the arguments. It’s turning you into people you’re not. You’re my best friends, and I love you more than life itself, but I think I also hate you in equal measure.” 

Sirius had gone cold at that. James, for all his flaws and his failings, had never been someone who hated. He was endlessly forgiving; he had an easy grace to him that saw the best in other people. To hear him say that he hated who Marlene and Sirius had become had been like a punch to the gut. 

"Maybe you need to learn to appreciate one another again," James continued with a sigh, looking at them across the table. "We do—" Sirius started before James interrupted with a wave of his hand. 

"You'll end up killing each other if you keep on like this, you know. Why don’t you come to Kingsley’s with me some time? I’m not saying this week, or next week, or even this year. But just… maybe you need to learn to let each other go a bit.”

"How exactly is screwing other people going to do that?" Marlene had scoffed, and James had grinned back at her, leaning over the table to pat her arm. 

"You'll see.”

The thought had burrowed its way into Sirius’ brain. So, on a Friday night after months of talking and discussing and arguing, they'd gone to Kingsley Shacklebolt’s house with that thought in mind. Instead of having a few drinks, dancing with the rest of the guests, Sirius and Marlene had parted ways. He'd watched as she slipped away upstairs with Hestia Jones, another reporter on the sports desk at the Daily Prophet with James at the time, his fingers shaking a little with anxiety and jealousy and worry as he wrapped them round his glass. 

"C'mon," James murmured in his ear, letting his hand rest easily at the small of Sirius' back. "You're meant to be having a good time here, too." 

"I am having a good time!"

James raised his eyebrows. "Are you? There’s no obligation to be into this.” 

Sirius made an awkward noise and took a sip of his drink. "Sure I am." 

"Tell you what," murmured James again, leaning in close to Sirius' ear. His hand moved lazily down to Sirius' arse. "Why don't you and I go upstairs for a bit? Relive old times like we're teenagers in the dorm again." 

"You know, if you wanted to hook up with me again, you could have just asked. No need to play the long game and convince my girlfriend to get into swinging." 

James threw back his head and laughed at that, slapping Sirius' backside lightly. "You dickhead. I want you to loosen up, that's all. Thought you might want to start with territory you already know, so to speak. Marls has taken to this like a duck to water, but I think your problem is that you're a little more cautious." 

"I'm a jealous bitch is what my problem is," grumbled Sirius, downing his glass.

“You’re not,” James said, his tone kinder than Sirius had anticipated, “you’re learning to love someone betterby letting them go. That’s hard.” 

Sirius stared at him incredulously. “When did you get so fucking wise?” 

“What can I say? This is an educational establishment.” 

Sirius and James had always existed in the blurred space between clearly defined lines. Best friends, occasional lovers, business partners—the old adage about never mixing business and pleasure had utterly passed them by. So, with a slow smile and a nod, Sirius had placed his glass down on the coffee table and followed James, allowing him to lead the way through the cramped sitting room and up the stairs. He’d responded to James’ offer with a quiet, but nonetheless enthusiastic yes, when they’d found themselves pressed into a box room off Kingsley’s upstairs landing. 

Somehow, that night had taught Marlene and Sirius about the things they’d been missing. It had taught them to be gentle to each other. Sirius had anticipated rage when he and Marlene were reunited at the end of the night; he’d expected anger and spite to bubble up in his throat and flood his words. To his great surprise, his overriding emotion when Marlene had found him at the end of the evening had been relief as she slipped her hand into his. 

There’d been bumps in the road—how could there not be, when they were unpicking chords and writing new melodies? But it had been the start of something genuinely _good_ , something that Sirius had learned to cherish as an integral part of who he was. Hard work, certainly, but good all the same. 

“Hey,” Marlene said softly, drawing Sirius from his thoughts and back into the swell of The Auror. “Which part of dreamland did you just go to?” 

“The bit that reminds me I should love you better than I’ve failed to do.” 

“I think there’s room for forgiveness for both of us on that front, don’t you?” she hummed gently, snaking one hand round the back of Sirius neck to knot her fingers into his curls. “All things considered.”

Their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss. Sirius would never forget the first time they’d kissed, all those years ago in the Gryffindor common room. He’d been so angry then—furious about the world and his place within it, filled with rage about his family, about his name, about whatever the hell the future held once they stepped beyond the safety of Hogwarts’ walls. Marlene was sitting in his lap one night in the common room, running her hands along the taut muscles of his back while she listened to him rant about yet another missive from his mother. She’d kissed him hard and hot, no subtlety to the gesture. She told him later it was the only thing she could think of to shut him up. 

Still, it had been the start of something; or, rather, a beginning in an ending, as the strange sexual tension that had been growing between Sirius and Marlene for months began to dissolve into something else. 

“I think I need my eyes testing, because I think I’m seeing Marlene McKinnon kissing her own boyfriend at a club night.” 

Sirius and Marlene broke apart and looked up. Approaching them with a beaming smile was Dorcas Meadowes. She was, Sirius mused, a truly spectacular woman: that smile could light up a room like nothing else. 

“What, can’t I spend a night with my own girlfriend without your permission, Meadowes?” Sirius grinned. It was a good thing, he thought, that Marlene had such excellent taste in women; he and Dorcas got on like a house on fire, and he’d always had a laugh with Hestia Jones when Marlene had been sleeping with her. 

Dorcas swatted her hand against Sirius’ arm, her smile lazy and good-natured. “Behave yourself, Black. Marlene already told me she’s off-limits tonight… to which I say, lucky boy.” 

“Oh,” breathed Sirius smugly, “I know just how lucky.” 

Marlene snorted and took a sip of her drink. “Both of you better know how ridiculous this cattiness over me is. _Hot_ , I have to say, but ridiculous all the same.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter and wrapped an arm around Dorcas’ shoulders. “Marls, darling, there’s no one I’d rather share you with.” 

“Back at you, Black.” 

Marlene cocked her head to one side. “You know,” she said slowly, “there’s always the option that you don’t have to share…” 

“Behave,” Sirius laughed, echoing Dorcas’ words from earlier. “Meadowes doesn’t play for my team.” 

Marlene raised her eyebrows and looked at him over the rim of her glass, eyes twinkling with delight. “Which is a shame, really, because you are utterly delicious.” 

Sirius was desperately trying to come up with something witty to say in return when he heard a commotion behind him. Raucousness was hardly unusual at The Auror; after all, it was famed for it. This commotion was different, however—a sort of collective intake of breath, a ripple of some fearful whisper that pulsed through the crowd. Sirius turned, frowning. 

His stomach dropped. Standing in the doorway, the people parting before them like the Red Sea, were a group of people Sirius recognised only too well. A quick headcount said four. 

They weren’t in their Ministry uniforms. Somehow, that seemed worse—if they were standing there in the usual aubergine robes, glittering silver M embroidered on the breast, perhaps it would feel like something could hold them accountable. Perhaps that was just optimism. Either way, the sight of four members of the Department for Magical Morality standing in the doorway of The Auror couldn’t mean anything but trouble.

Sirius could name three of them straight off. Corban Yaxley, with his bulging eyes and soft, weak chin; he’d been the year below them at Hogwarts. Sirius could remember a particularly nasty incident at Duelling Club when Yaxley had used such a forceful _alarte ascendare_ on Davey Gudgeon while his back was turned that he’d broken three ribs. Sirius and James, outraged by the lack of sportsmanship, had shot twin _engorgio skullus_ hexes at Yaxley, only for him to duck and the curses to hit an unsuspecting Bertram Aubrey. It was one of the few times Sirius had thought their detentions well and truly deserved. 

Beside Yaxley were Walden McNair and Travers—Sirius couldn’t recall his first name. They’d been a year ahead at Hogwarts; brutish and brutal. Sirius felt anger swell in his chest at the sight of McNair in particular, after a particularly nasty incident involving Marlene at a Quidditch match… 

The fourth man was familiar, but Sirius couldn’t place him. Some connection between him and the Ministry official flitted about in the back of his mind, vague and without definition, much to Sirius’ annoyance. The man stood at the front of the group, and Sirius wondered if he was the leader of their group. Something about the way he stood—shoulders back, chin tipped slightly upwards—exuded a sense of grim leadership; some authority that sat on the surface, as violence swirled in the current below. 

Sirius turned to Marlene and Dorcas. “We should go,” he urged in a low voice.

“Is that…” Marlene trailed off, the colour draining from her face. She blinked rapidly. “Sirius, is that McNair?” 

Sirius nodded, but didn’t speak. He reached out his hand for Marlene’s, knotting their fingers together. 

Dorcas frowned and muttered out the corner of her mouth at Marlene. “You know him?” 

“Beat the shit out of me at school once,” replied Marlene. Her voice was almost monotone, but Sirius felt her grip his hand a little tighter. “Quidditch match when I was in fifth year; he was the year above. I got the Snitch from under his nose and he nosedived into me, knocking me off my broom. Forgot all about the sanctity of magic when he was punching me the Muggle way, didn’t he? It took three of the Gryffindor team to get him off me. It was after your time.” 

“Jesus!” breathed Dorcas. “Why the fuck is someone like that working for the Ministry?” 

“Money gets you places in this world, you know that, Meadowes,” Sirius replied. His eyes flicked round the room, trying to see if he could spot James’ wayward hair above the crowd. 

From beyond the DJ booth, the Auror’s customers parted again. Descending the steps was Kingsley, the expression on his face unreadable. He was clad in his usual purple waistcoat, glittering with heavy gold embroidery, and hanging open at the front; Sirius thought he saw the flash of Kinglsey’s wand in an inside pocket, noticeable for its silver handle. 

“Gentlemen,” Kingsley said smoothly, spreading his arms wide as though the men who had just walked through the door were old friends. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I didn’t know we were expecting a visit from the Ministry this evening.” 

“This isn’t an official visit,”purred the official at the front. He had a sharp, angular face, and dark, flashing eyes. Sirius tried to remember his name. _Rawlings? Roberts?_ “Can’t a group of friends come into your… _welcoming_ establishment for a drink?” 

“Well then, Mr Rookwood,” Kingsley replied, “in that case, allow me to get you some refreshments.”

_Rookwood._ It all came flooding back to Sirius now. Augustus Rookwood— _Gus_ , to the initiated—was a friend of Rodolphus Lestrange; he’d been best man at Rodolphus’ wedding to Bellatrix. Sirius remembered reading about it in the Daily Prophet during his final year at Hogwarts, about the extravagant stag party that had resulted in thousands of Galleons’ worth of damage to a restaurant in Diagon Alley. 

Moving behind the bar, Kingsley laid a hand on the bartender’s wrist. A look passed between them, clear to those watching that Kingsley was staking out his kingdom. The bartender cleared his throat and stepped back. 

“Perhaps a glass of the finest firewhisky, gentlemen?” asked Kingsley smoothly. He pulled his wand from his inner pocket and directed it at a bottle on the top shelf of the bar. It soared down to meet four tumblers that jumped up onto the wooden bar top with a dull _thunk_. 

“On the house, of course,” continued Kingsley as he directed the bottle to uncork and pour out generous measures of amber liquid. The four men stepped forward to take their drinks. 

“What happened to you then, Shacklebolt?” McNair picked up a glass and with it gestured to the twin scars on Kingsley’s chest; one neat line on either pectoral. 

“Battle scars.”

“Oh, of course,” McNair rolled his eyes, “how could I forget? Once upon a time, you were an Auror—back when that meant something.” 

“Not that kind of battle,” Kingsley replied, an edge to his voice that Sirius had never heard before. He turned and addressed the room. “Go back to your drinks, friends. I’m sure our guests don’t need an audience for theirs.” 

The crowd did as Kingsley requested; they didn’t need telling twice. A steady stream of people began to leave the club, and Sirius felt his heart jump into his throat at the look on Kingsley’s face. _This is what they wanted_ , Sirius thought. They wanted people to be frightened, they wanted people to worry about what it would mean if their names were connected to a place like The Auror. They wanted to scare people into submission. 

Those who didn’t leave immediately did not return to their usual cheer. The atmosphere was subdued, heavy with the threat of those four men who sat around Kingsley’s bar, drinking his firewhisky and clearly delighting in the impact of their presence. Sirius ground his teeth. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Marlene said, her face still a chalky white. 

Dorcas gave her a kind smile and squeezed her arm affectionately. “I’ll go with you, hun.” 

Sirius mouthed a silent _thank you_ at Dorcas as she glanced at him, linking her arm through Marlene’s as they made their way through the crowd towards the bathrooms. Sirius didn’t let his eyes leave them until he watched the door to the ladies’ swing shut. 

_Fuck_. He turned back to look at the bar. Absolutely nothing about the present situation could be described as _desirable_. Sirius had been talking about how busy it was all night—even with the people leaving, any reckless firing off of curses from either party would make the room descend into chaos. As he bit at his lower lip and considered their options, James pushed his way through the group of people in front of Sirius and clapped a hand on his back. 

“This is incredibly awkward, isn’t it?” James muttered, glancing at over to the bar where the dark-cloaked group of men still stood. His lip curled as his gaze fell upon Walden McNair. “And fuck McNair, by the way.” 

“Right,” murmured Sirius in agreement, draining the last of his gillywater, “fuck McNair. Were you upstairs?”

James shook his head. “I wish. I was looking for Rosa. I thought we should talk.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Look at you! Being a grown up all of a sudden.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” James chuckled darkly. “I deserve that. I just think… I don’t know. We’ve been fucking about for so long, and while I take umbrage with Marls’ suggestion that it’s _all_ on me, I can see that a lot of it is my fault. I’ve been flaky, and I’ve been shitty about telling her what I want.” 

“What is it you want?” 

Sirius watched James tug at his bottom lip for a long moment, before their eyes met. “I think,” James said slowly, “that—and this is ridiculous, you see, because—“ 

“Prongs.” 

“Sorry, right.” James let out a halting little laugh. “I think I want commitment. I think I’m done with…“ he waved vaguely round the club, “well, with this.” 

“This—“ Sirius mimicked his gesture— “doesn’t have to mean a lack of commitment.” 

“I know, I know, I just…” James shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll tell you about it at home, yeah? I can’t concentrate with all those fuckers over there by the bar.” 

Sirius opened his mouth to reply only to pause as Marlene reappeared at their side.  
  
“Dorcas has gone to find Em to head home,” she said, jerking her head to the other side of the room. “I think we should do the same.” 

“Hang on, are they leaving?” James nodded towards where the four men were draining the last of their glasses. Sirius watched as they stood, making a great show of pulling on their cloaks, fiddling with the closings and smoothing down invisible creases. 

Sirius felt something deep within his chest; some crack he thought had been closed up threatening to break open into a chasm. It could have so easily been _him_ , he thought as he watched Augustus Rookwood lean forward and whisper something into Yaxley’s ear. If things were different, if Sirius wasn’t the hard-headed lion heart, he could have so easily been standing beside the men from the Ministry, donning his cloak and revelling in quite how much discomfort he was causing. 

Only, Sirius had always been different, hadn’t he? Sometimes he thought of himself as a changeling; he’d stare at himself in the ornate mirror in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, pulling at the soft flesh of his cheeks and bulging out his eyes as though doing so might make his skin crack and splinter, revealing whatever was really underneath. 

He watched the group of men saunter—so casually, so comfortably—towards the exit of The Auror. McNair turned one last time as the group reached the door. Over his shoulder, he glanced into the crowd. His eyes—as though drawn by some magnetism, some aura imperceptible to anyone else—seemed to snap straight to Sirius, and then to Marlene beside him. Sirius felt bile rise in his throat. 

The club seemed frozen in a moment, even as the men vanished from sight. There was no collective sigh of relief as James, Sirius and Marlene donned their jackets in silence. They didn’t need to discuss the situation they’d just witnessed—they knew what had just happened. They’d been talking about it among themselves for so long, the threat of the Ministry and what it meant that there was a new Department for Magical Morality circling like vultures in the inky darkness just outside The Auror’s doors. 

They bid their goodbyes to Kingsley—there was no need to name the spectre that haunted his eyes. All of them looked that way, all of them held that _something_ in their faces that was a shared understanding of _us vs. them._ Tonight was just a culmination of a series of events. It didn’t matter, Sirius thought, that there’d been no physical threat from the four Ministry men. It mattered that they had stepped inside The Auror’s doors; that they had taken up the space in such a way that left no doubt as to the message they wanted to convey. _The Ministry saw them. The Ministry had the power to destroy them, too._

The air outside the club was a sharp shock as they stepped into it. Sirius zipped his jacket up and held out a hand for Marlene to take. 

“C’mon, let’s go,” James said, jerking his head up the street. “We could stop at the Leaky and get chips, perhaps.” 

Movement ahead of them prevented Marlene and Sirius from responding. All three of them drew their wands, raising them into the darkness. A figure, surrounded by a cloud of pale green smoke, stepped towards them, and Sirius caught the familiar scent of _Mr Malkin’s Menthol Cigarettes_. He grimaced. That smell was a surefire way to bring up memories that Sirius would rather forget. 

The figure stepped into the weak glow of the streetlamp, and Sirius thought his heart might beat so hard it would burst right out of his chest. 

“Brother,” Regulus said mildly. His eyes—so like Sirius’—drifted lazily over Sirius’ casual appearance, over where Marlene and Sirius’ hands were clasped together, over James standing there beside them. Even that lazy gaze felt like an appraisal of every part of Sirius’ life, his personhood. They lowered their wands. 

“Regulus,” replied Sirius. He felt Marlene squeeze his hand a little tighter. 

“I have to say, I enjoyed watching that little display with McNair just now. How fortunate that we’d run into each other. Then again, why am I unsurprised to find this is your, er, _scene_?” Regulus cocked his head to one side, nodding towards The Auror behind them. 

Sirius gave an incredulous snort. “I don’t know, because I’ve been an open supporter of The Auror for years? Because I invested so that they could buy this building?” 

Regulus let out a noise that sounded almost like a _hiss_. “Not all of us have had the time to scour the Prophet for every sordid detail of your life.” 

Sirius heard Marlene take a sharp intake of breath beside him. He squeezed her hand, desperate that she wouldn’t intervene, that she’d be able to quell the rage he knew would be rising like a flood in her. He almost wanted to laugh: _how the tables turned._ Only minutes previously, he had been the one consumed with fury over McNair.

“You made that point, three years ago, Reg. Funny, though, because you still turn up in my life, and you still seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on in it,” Sirius countered.

Regulus snorted again, shaking his head. He cast his cigarette to the ground and crushed it, almost daintily, beneath his shoe, and Sirius could imagine exactly the eye roll Marlene was giving without even having to look at her. He watched as his brother reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a shining silver cigarette case to light another. Sirius’ heart thudded heavily against his ribcage. He knew what that was—like a magpie he would recognise that shining little object anywhere, because he’d watched it pulled from their father’s breast pocket enough times growing up. Orion’s cigarette case, engraved with the crest of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, usually given to the eldest son…

“You two should go home,” Sirius muttered, turning to James and Marlene.

James made a face. “Absolutely not. If you think we’re leaving you—“

“Prongs.” 

Something about the sharp bite of Sirius’ tone clearly had the effect on James that he wanted it to. The two of them stared at one another for a moment, grey eyes meeting. James was first to break their gaze, nodding resignedly.

“We’ll wait over there, alright?” He gestured further down the street. “But we’re not going home without you, not with McNair in the vicinity. And don’t fucking argue with me about it, Sirius.”

“Right,” murmured Sirius, feeling the cool evening air against his hand where Marlene’s had just been. He watched James and Marlene make their way up the street a little, both of them still gripping their wands. Eventually—and closer to he and Regulus than Sirius would have liked—they paused, turning their backs against the brick wall front of _Diggle & Diggory: Magical Legalists_. Neither of them stowed their wands.

Sirius swallowed, blinking rapidly, and spoke. “Walburga wrote to me.” 

Regulus took a drag of his cigarette, pale green smoke drifting into the night air. “She said.” 

“I guess congratulations are in order. Your engagement. Who is she?” 

“Alecto Carrow.”

Sirius frowned in confusion. “What? She’s engaged to the younger Lestrange, isn’t she?” 

“Well, she _was_ ,” replied Regulus. His face split into a cold, mirthless grin, and Sirius felt bile rising like ocean swell in his chest. Watching Regulus grin like that was like looking into the face of some strange, morbid mannequin that didn’t sound like their father, but looked like him all the same. “Things can be arranged.” 

“I hope she loves you, Reg,” 

Regulus’ grin gave way to a small smile, but something about the way the corners of his mouth turned up said sadness, not amusement. “Not everything’s about love, Sirius.” 

“It should be.” 

Regulus shrugged languidly. “That’s as may be.” He cast his cigarette to the ground and glanced around the street outside the club. “But things aren’t always as they should be, are they? You know that. There’s a lot of things you, the eldest son, should be.” 

Sirius looked back at Regulus. He chose not to rise to that bait. “What are you doing back in London? Really, Regulus; don’t feed me the lie about this engagement.” 

“Fine,” replied his brother curtly. “Let’s say I have… unfinished business.” 

“Business,” Sirius repeated. “I didn’t know you were in the habit of working for your money.” 

Regulus rolled his eyes. “You’re hardly a rags-to-riches story yourself, Sirius. Then again, from what I hear about your Quidditch team, you might soon be a story of riches-to-rags.” 

A curious thought flitted into Sirius’ mind. Looking at his brother, he wondered what that statement really meant. _From what I hear about your Quidditch team_ —what did _that_ mean? The thought of that water-stainedlittle notebook from Mundungus’ desk jumped into the forefront of his mind. _Surely not_ , Sirius thought. Surely Regulus wasn’t involved. 

“Well,” Sirius extended a hand for his brother to take, trying desperately to school his features into some blank look, “I suppose I’ll let you get on, then.” 

Regulus looked down at Sirius’ outstretched hand, a flicker of confusion jumping across his face. Very slowly, he cast his cigarette down to the ground, and took Sirius’ hand. Sirius gave it a moment, enough time for James and Marlene to see them shaking hands and to think all was fine. Then, in a smooth motion, Sirius wrapped his fingers around Regulus’ and pulled him close.

“Remember when you used the Cruciatus curse on me, Regulus?” Sirius breathed. His lips were millimetres from Regulus’ ear. “Remember when you sent me to St Mungo’s? Because I do.”

“That was—“

“That was then,” continued Sirius, entirely ignoring Regulus’ interruption, “and this is now. Now, you’re home, after turning tail and running for three years. Let’s say it’s… unfinished business.” 

Sirius stepped back and looked at his brother. His heart ached with how much they looked alike. Regulus was more of a lithe build; he didn’t have the broad, strong shoulders that had made Sirius perfect as a Beater. Though Regulus’ face was the more pinched, slender version of his own, Sirius felt like he was looking into some kind of mirror; _Orion_ and _Walburga_ and _himself_ seemed to swim together in the vision of Regulus’ face. 

Sirius shook his head sadly. “You could have been so much more than this, you know.” 

“The same could be said of you.”

The brothers looked at one another: twin halves of one wretched whole. Sirius studied the man before him—so different, it seemed, to the boy Regulus had been three years ago when he’d left for France. Certainly, Regulus looked older; he sported a smattering of dark stubble that added a sharp edge to his jaw, and there were the beginnings of lines at the corners of his eyes. The ageing, however, was not the thing that really struck Sirius. No, it was that Regulus looked _weary_. 

Very softly, Sirius spoke. “I know your secrets, Regulus. Don’t forget that.” 

With that, and without waiting to join James and Marlene further up the street, Sirius turned on his heel and was gone.


	6. A New Coach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and James catch up, and an unexpected visitor joins them at Peregrine Games.

Monday morning arrived with another heavy downpour. Sirius and James ducked along the edges of Diagon Alley, grateful for the awning that offered them some shelter from the rain. They were headed from the flat to Florian Fortescue’s for their Monday morning tradition of hot coffee and pastries before the start of the working week. Sirius ran a hand through his damp hair and glanced over his shoulder as they walked; ever since the incident at The Auror on Saturday night, he’d been jumpy. Frankly, he thought, nothing would be a worse start to a Monday morning than running into Regulus before coffee.

Arriving at the coffee shop, they found it busy with witches and wizards keen for hot coffee and Mr. Fortescue’s famous pastries, flaky and delicious. The air smelled like cinnamon and something sweet, heavy with the condensation from sodden cloaks being pulled off and dried with a hasty Hot-Air charm. Sirius breathed deeply and grinned.

“C’mon,” he said to James, and began to push his way through the groups of people in front of the counter. Behind it, Florian Fortescue was serving customers with his usual booming voice and broad grin, mopping his bald head every now-and-then with a garish floral handkerchief plucked from the top pocket of his flour-smudged apron. When he spotted Sirius and James, he gave them a hearty wave, and bounded over.

“Morning, Florian,” smiled Sirius, fishing in his pockets for his coin pouch. “The usual, please.”

Mr. Fortescue smiled, his round cheeks flushed red in the warmth of the crowded cafe. “One black coffee, extra hot. Anything for you, Mr. Potter?”

“A latte, two sugars, and… hmm,” James mused, peering at the shelves laden with fresh pastries behind the counter. “Have you got any of those mallowsweet and lemon tarts you had last week?”

“I do indeed! Fresh batch just out of the oven in the back—will it be two?”

James shook his head with a wry smile and a roll of his eyes. “No, just the one. Sirius is apparently _on a diet_.”

“Hey!” Sirius protested, elbowing James’ side when both he and Mr. Fortescue laughed. “You mock, but I need to keep my figure in check before Marlene leaves me for someone hotter and younger.”

“Mate, I’m constantly surprised she’s not left you for someone hotter and younger,” joked James as Mr. Fortescue wandered into the kitchen to find a pastry for James.

“ _Rude_.”

Drinks and one pastry paid for, Sirius and James made their way over to the table that was reserved for them every Monday without fail. It was in the corner, right by the big bay window that looked out over the street. None of the chairs or tables in the place matched; they liked this table because it came with one leather armchair into which Sirius could sink, the springs so loose that he nearly skimmed the floor. James, on the other hand, took a straight-backed chair covered in Harris tweed that allowed him enough room for what Sirius called his _offensively-long legs_.

“You hear from Kingsley at all?” James asked through a mouthful of flaky pastry. 

“Yeah,” nodded Sirius, finishing a scrap of parchment from his top pocket and handing it over to James. “Doesn’t say much, just that he and Dawlish are fine.”

He sipped his coffee while James read, glancing out of the window as the hot liquid warmed him.

“Well, that’s something, at least.” James threw the paper down onto the table. Sirius cast a lazy hand over it, the parchment catching light with crimson, smokeless flame and vanishing.

“Yeah, it is something. Speaking of, we never got a chance to talk this weekend about you not wanting in on The Auror anymore.”

James screwed up his face and took a gulp of coffee. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re getting past it.”

“Speak for yourself,” chuckled Sirius.

“Do you not feel _old_? I feel fucking ancient every time I walk in there. Everyone’s young and optimistic.”

“Would you calm down, you’re talking like you’re one foot in the grave.”

“That’s because I feel one foot in the grave.”

Sirius laughed and took another mouthful of hot coffee. He loved Florian’s little shop, with its rickety tables and too many bodies pressed into it. He loved, too, this ritual he and James had had of sharing a coffee before work every Monday ever since they left Hogwarts. Back at the start, they’d been living in a pokey little flat in Muggle London, with mould that even Monty’s famed mould potion wouldn’t budge. They’d get up and trudge through the early morning quiet of the city to the Leaky Cauldron, and slip through the backyard to Diagon Alley, grateful for the chance to gulp down cups of Florian’s hottest, strongest coffee and to eat piles of buttered toast.

Sirius was working at Nimbus headquarters at the time, which meant apparating up to Edinburgh each morning. He didn’t mind it—thirty seconds apparition could hardly be called a commute. Wizarding Edinburgh was a warren of activity tunnelled beneath the Old Town of the city away from prying Muggle eyes, and the Nimbus headquarters occupied a great stretch of offices built into the face of the rock. That was the only thing Sirius didn’t like. He didn’t like the claustrophobia—it reminded him too much of home. Of _Grimmauld_.

Apropos of nothing—unless he’d suddenly developed a remarkable skill of Legilimency—James swallowed his final bite of pastry and cocked his head to one side. He looked thoughtfully at Sirius for a few moments before speaking. “Are we going to talk about your brother at all?”

Sirius glanced down at his coffee cup and ran a finger and thumb around the rim. “I guess that means you overheard Marls and I on Saturday night, then?”

“Mate, they'd have heard you at Hogwarts at the rate you were carrying on.”

Sirius grimaced. Saturday night had not been his—or, indeed, Marlene’s—finest moment. From outside the Auror, he’d apparated to the front door of the flat, not bothering with his keys and instead unlocking the door with a wave of his hand and a shove of his shoulder against the wood. He’d slammed it shut behind him before he strode to the turret stairs. Reaching his study, Sirius had thrown his jacket off and let out an almighty roar of fury, hurling books and papers and a half-empty glass of water from his desk in one sweeping motion, so that Fiera launched herself from her perch and let out loud, warning screeches from the ceiling beams above.

It felt like an eternity, and yet no time at all, before Sirius heard Marlene and James’ voices in the hallway below. He braced himself, expecting them to run up the stairs and ask him a barrage of questions, press him about Regulus, about what they’d discussed, about what he needed. He hoped they wouldn’t. Sirius loved them—his best friend, the love of his life—but sometimes what he needed was to step outside the cocoon of Marlene and James, with their supportive, loving families, and their normal childhoods, and their lack of _issues._ He needed to be left alone to be raw and broken.

“What the fuck, Sirius?”

Sirius turned at that point to see Marlene standing at the top of the stairs into the turret, her face pale with a mixture of fear and fury.

“What?” he asked gruffly.

“What the fuck were you thinking, just disapparating without telling Jim or I where you were going?”

“You’re overreacting,” Sirius scoffed and turned back to stare out of the window into the darkness. He heard Marlene cross the room behind him, her hand coming to his bicep to wheel him round to face her again.

“How the hell was I supposed to know where you were going?” Marlene had hissed, her eyes blazing. “All I knew was that I was watching you talk to the man who put you in St Mungo’s, and then you _vanished_. Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m overreacting.”

“I needed to go, alright?” Sirius snapped back.

Marlene had kissed him then, hands coming to his jaw to pull his lips towards hers. It wasn’t romantic; it was hungry, fearful, desperate. It was the sort of kiss that said _I thought I was going to lose you_ , and Sirius’ kiss in return said _I know._ He’d picked her up and carried her to the sofa. Her hands were in his hair, pulling on it, tugging at it and sending sharp shocks of electricity across his scalp. He wanted that—wanted to feel the pain as much as the pleasure, those competing elements, delight and anguish. There had always been a duality to the way he and Marlene fit together. Tonight was all about that conflict; the rough way she raked her fingernails against his back, the way he pulled the soft skin of her neck between his teeth and a left behind lines of red carnations, bloody blooms. It had been a long time since they’d fucked like that. That’s what it was—fucking. There was no tenderness in the way Marlene’s hands went for the button on his jeans, no gentle whispers in his ear about how much she loved him. No, this was base and unrefined. Sirius had no time to talk about how the amber light from the sconces on the walls made Marlene’s hair look like molten gold dripping across her skin, had no breath in his lungs for it. Not when she was pulling that lacy camisole over her head, not when she was giving him a look that made him feel like he was set ablaze. It wasn’t a time for words. Sirius simply wanted to burn, and burn, and _burn_.

James cleared his throat, drawing Sirius from his thoughts. He was running his thumbnail back-and-forth across a groove in the wooden table, looking down thoughtfully though his glasses and chewing on his lip. It was rare for James to be so timid in whatever it was he clearly wanted to say.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“About Regulus… tell me why you guys fought three years ago. Whatever it was—“ James cut himself off with a sigh and looked at Sirius with that piercing gaze that was so very _James._ He’d always been able to unsettle Sirius with that look. It felt like the kind of look that saw Sirius—really, truly saw him in ways that others simply couldn’t—and that equal parts delighted and terrified him. It was the look James had given him on that first day on the Hogwarts Express, that had captivated Sirius and drawn him into a world that glowed golden when all he’d known before was darkness.

“Whatever it was,” continued James, “it’s not going away. Regulus is back in London, and you need to tell me what the hell is going on. We’re not supposed to keep secrets from each other, Padfoot.”

James was right, of course. And yet, Sirius didn’t know how to start, where to begin. How could he explain? Regulus had left, and in his wake had been wreckage and reminiscence, tangled. Things were always tangled when it came to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. They were all seeds with such promise, corrupted by the garden they were planted in. Sirius could see it in their parents—somewhere beneath his mother’s unashamed mania and his father’s penchant for revenge, there was the wilted stem of a bud that could have bloomed, if not for the weeds. Sirius hoped his brother was better than that kind of end.

He ran a hand through his hair and looked at James. “Three years ago, just when we were starting up Peregrine, I got a letter from Regulus. He wanted to see me. I couldn’t exactly say no, could I? I hadn’t seen him in… well, if he was twenty-three—“ Sirius hummed for a moment as he worked it out. “It must have been five years. He’d left Hogwarts, done his training with my father and was all ready to be a magical legalist. My parents must have been so _proud_.”

“Right,” frowned James, “so what did he want?”

Sirius picked at the arm of the chair, stuffing poking out from under the leather. He sighed, and his dark grey eyes flicked back up to James. “He told me he was going to France. My father had given him three years’ salary, up front. That was their deal—Regulus took my place, did his legalist training, joined the firm and so on. In return, Orion gave him the money to go and, I don’t know, blow it all on hookers and Doxy Drops in Paris for a couple years. Let off some steam before they found him a nice, suitable wife.”

“God, is it any wonder you left? You family are so fucking _weird_.”

“Well, it gets weirder. He was having an affair, Jem. Someone he shouldn’t have been having an affair with, you know?”

James coughed into his latte and came up spluttering, a few droplets of coffee smattered across his glasses. He pulled them off his face and wiped them absentmindedly on the bottom of his shirt. “ _Regulus_ was having an affair? Who the hell with?”

“I don’t know, but I know she was married. He said as much.”

“Well, fuck me.” James puffed out his cheeks and sat back in his chair.

“Maybe later? It’s a Monday morning, let me have another coffee first.”

James threw his napkin at Sirius. “Yes, thank you, smart arse, but not what I meant. I thought Regulus was all signed up to your parents’ way of seeing things. Proper, no scandals, that sort of thing.”

Sirius fixed James with a look. “No scandals? Of course there are scandals, they’re just boring pureblood ones.”

“Why the Cruciatus, then?”

“What?”  
  
“Well,” James said, “it makes no sense for him to have used it on you if he’s just revealed _he’s_ the one having an affair. What did you do, threaten to expose him?”

Sirius let out a long breath. “No but… I said some stuff I’m not proud of. I called him a coward—and I don’t regret _that_. After all those years of standing beside my mother and father, silent when they were so fucking cruel to me about being bi, and about Marls… and after all that, Regulus is fucking someone else’s wife? I told him that he was a coward, that I’d been honest about who I was and I’d taken the hit for it, regardless of the consequences. And he’s just stood by at let it happen to me, never once trying to help. When I said that, he just… snapped. Pulled his wand out, told me I didn’t know the half of it, that I didn’t know what he’d done to protect me. I’ve never seen him angry like that. Next thing I remember, I’m in St Mungo’s and he’s gone.”

James didn’t say anything. His eyes were narrowed, clearly thinking hard about what Sirius had just imparted. Sirius chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the fact that even just recounting that story had made his palms sweaty, and his heartbeat thud heavy against the walls of his chest. He could vividly remember the agony of waking up in St Mungo’s three days later, Marlene’s pale, tear-stained face looking at him. James told him later that she’d not left his side from the moment she arrived until he opened his eyes.

“Regulus said something on Saturday, about the Kestrels…” Sirius trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is, but something doesn’t feel right.”

“You think he’s the one paying Dung?”

“I don’t know, honestly. Part of me wants to say yes, because it’d be so easy, you know? But… it’s not like him. Regulus has always been more subtle than me; he’d never work with Dung, not in a hundred lifetimes.”

James tutted and shook his head. He pulled a battered pocket watch out of his pocket and squinted at it. “It’s nearly nine, we should probably get to the office.” James snapped the watch shut with a sudden burst of energy and looked up at Sirius, his gaze piercing. “Let me guess, Regulus is another topic of conversation for our meeting with Alphard later?”

Sirius huffed out a breath and nodded. “If anyone’s going to have ideas about what the fuck Regulus is doing, it’ll be Alphard.”

“You know,” said James as he stood and shrugged on his jacket, “you could just ask Regulus what his deal is. Invite him over for supper where Marls and I can hang out in the next room and hex him if necessary.”

“Prongs.” Sirius pushed himself to his feet and raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “We’re looking for practical solutions, here.”

* * *

Monday mornings at Peregrine Games were always busy. Frank Longbottom dropped by not long after James and Sirius arrived at the office to hand over his healer’s report and to update them on Angus Maddock’s progress. It hadn’t taken long for the conversation to return to the real augury in the room: Mundungus.

“I’m trusting you here,” Frank said as he shrugged his cloak on and walked to the doorway. “Don’t let me down, will you?”

“Frank,” replied Sirius with a cheeky grin, “I have it on good authority that I’m _never_ a disappointment.”

“Piss off, Sirius,” Frank had called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. “You forget that I’ve been to yours for dinner when Marlene’s been drunk and taken great delight in telling all the times you’ve not managed to perform!”

“Rude!” laughed Sirius and sent a stinging hex through the doorway for good measure. The loud yelp and string of good-natured swear words from Frank at the front door told Sirius he’d hit his mark.

Next, there’d been a visit from the man Sirius referred to only as the Skrewt Chap; a small, bespectacled gentleman with a bald patch on the top of his head that gleamed almost unnaturally, and watery blue eyes that seemed permanently wide. He was the magical menagerist who oversaw the various fighting Skrewts that James and Sirius had accumulated to their management.

“Scale rot!” he whispered almost conspiratorially, leering over the desk towards James. “There’s been a breakout of scale rot!”

James was leaning back in his chair as far as he could; the Skrewt Chap had a notorious and flagrant disregard for dental hygiene. “That’s-that’s treatable, right?”

The Skrewt Chap inclined his head as though imparting some great wisdom. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I’ll have to make a preparation for them. Gillyweed puree and butter does an excellent job.”

James seemed to be transfixed by the Skrewt Chap’s shining head. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

“If that’s everything,” interjected Sirius loudly, worried that James’ staring might be offensive at that point. “We’ll let you get on, don’t want to keep the little blighters waiting, do we? If you just send us your bill at the end of the month as usual…”

The next few hours consisted of a flurry of owls—letters to be read, bills to be paid, orders to be sent to their suppliers. James and Sirius didn’t usually talk through their work; they inhabited a comfortable quiet, the radio on in the background as they tallied up totals. Sirius, fortunately, was going over the books for one of their herds of Granians, and delighted in the way the columns of magical numerals totalled up to a very healthy figure. _Arithmancy at Hogwarts paid off_ , he mused.

As the rain continued to fall outside, adding a rhythmic patter to the noises of the office, a familiar theme song played from the radio. Sirius looked up and sighed. The lunchtime politics programme from Owl FM always managed to put him in a bad mood, partly due to the content, and partly due to the infernally irritating presenter.

“God, Isaiah Smith’s an absolute wart of a human, isn’t he?” James said, lip curling as he looked at the radio.

“Yeah, and worst thing is that he was a fucking good Chaser back in the day. You remember?”

“Oh,” replied James darkly, “I remember. That match against Hufflepuff in fifth year will haunt me til my dying day.”

Sirius burst out laughing. “God, I’d forgotten that! I still can’t work out how he managed to just rip your Quidditch jodhpurs off you.”

“Don’t, it’s not funny,” James said, even as his lips began to twitch up at the sides. “The whole school saw my lucky Snitch boxers.”

“Mate, we saw a lot more than that!”

James, however, did not reply. He’d turned back to the radio, his face setting into a hard scowl.

“Our position is hardly one of hatred, Isaiah. _”_ Voldemort’s high, reedy voice came through the radio with the addition of some background static, making him sound as though he was whispering straight into the room. “We are deeply passionate about the importance of magic, about the precious, precious nature of every magical life. We’re concerned about maintaining that precious magical life, ensuring that there are plenty of magical children to fill the beds at Hogwarts.”

“Fuck him,” snarled Sirius, taking off one of his loafers and chucking it at the radio. It thudded against the machine and the voices cut out with a loud _click_. “Fuck him very much, and then some.”

“God, he’s vile.” The hard scowl on James’ face turned into a look of distaste.

“That’s an understatement, Jim,” Sirius snorted as he stood and walked over to retrieve his shoe. “He’s a fucking authoritarian lunatic.”

The two heard a cough from the doorway and looked up. Sirius went very still. Standing there—short, stocky, powerfully built—was Peter Pettigrew, his mousy brown hair was still a little damp from the downpour outside. The amber of the lamps on the walls made him look a little gaunt, his face cast half in shadow and taking on a slightly uncanny quality. It took a moment for Sirius’ heart to stop thumping quite so hard in his chest, for him to realise that it was just the light, that there was nothing _wrong_ with Peter.

“If this is a bad time…” Peter trailed off, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I rang the bell…”

“No, no,” James replied brightly, jumping up and beckoning him in. “Come in, come in, the bell’s a pile of dragon dung. Despite our best _reparos_ , it still doesn’t work—we think it’s cursed. Speaking of—“ he turned to Sirius— “did you write to that bloke at the Ministry about it? I’m thinking it’s some kind of Boggart-curse hybrid; mind that time it tried to bite my finger?”

“No, I didn’t write,” said Sirius, gesturing towards the pair of slightly-bedraggled sofas in the front office, “but I’m sure Peter doesn’t really care about our bell-related traumas, James.”

“Right, right.” James grinned a little sheepishly. “Have a seat, Peter.”

“Tea?” Sirius asked, lifting up a slightly-chipped teapot and wiggling it back and forth.

Peter cast a quick drying charm over his clothes and then settled on one sofa. He politely raised a hand. “No, I’m alright, thanks.”

“Good choice,” Sirius grimaced. “Our cooling cabinet has been on the fritz and I think at this point, the milk might be able to walk.”

Peter laughed earnestly and Sirius smiled back at him. It felt better having a rival team’s coach in their office when Sirius could make him laugh. It felt less… threatening.

“So,” James asked, resting his feet on the coffee table and putting his hands behind his head, “what can we do for you? Something tells me this visit is tied to your little expedition to the Dell on Saturday—and you certainly weren’t there to pick up Quidditch tactics.”

Sirius refrained from rolling his eyes. James Potter was many things; he was kind, and good, and had a sense of humour that made Sirius laugh until there were tears in his eyes and his sides hurt. He was fiercely loyal and committed. But, there was one thing James Potter was not, and that was _subtle_.

Peter gave a shrug and a wry smile. “Word on the snare is that you and your coach don’t see eye-to-eye.”

“You could say that,” muttered Sirius darkly. He threw himself onto the sofa beside James and fixed Peter with an appraising look. “Last I heard, you’re in the same boat with the Magpies.”

“Yeah,” Peter swallowed, nodding. His eyebrows quirked into a small frown. “I was given the boot. Turns out they’ll will do anything to win—even if it means hexing the opposite team.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Sirius. “You report them to the league?”

“Couldn’t. They didn’t actually do it—they just talked about doing it. When I said that there was absolutely no way that was happening on my watch, the Magpies got rid of me.”

Neither James or Sirius replied for a moment. Sirius watched their guest, the way he fiddled with the nap of his corduroy trousers, shiny at the knees from wear. They’d not crossed paths at Hogwarts much; Peter was in his final year when James, Sirius and Marlene arrived. They’d followed his career, of course—the three of them were Quidditch mad, and there was always that frisson of excitement that they’d rubbed shoulders with the best beater in the league.

Peter as a _person_ was a bit of an enigma, though. He’d never been photographed having one-too-many at the Leaky Cauldron after a big win; there’d been no gossip in Rita Skeeter’s column about him and a society witch. Sirius wasn’t even sure he lived in the wizarding world. Someone had mentioned something about a Muggle mother once, somewhere up north. An outcast, Sirius mused, or someone with something he doesn’t want to share.

“You’re here because you want a job, then,” he said eventually.

“Well, I—“ Peter blushed. “Think of it more as, er, testing the waters, I guess.”

“Hey,” Sirius chuckled a little bitterly, and held up his hands. “No shade in that comment. We’d love to have you. We’re fucked, you see, so really, if you want the chance to turn the Kestrels around, or die trying in the process, then you’re entirely welcome to.”

“Die trying?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Look,” James said, leaning forward onto his knees and looking at Peter. “You were a damn good beater back in the day, and you deserve, frankly, better than the Magpies have given you. We genuinely think this team could be great, but we’ve had… issues.”

Peter laughed. “No offence, but that seems like a bit of an understatement. You’re a hag’s nipple away from relegation, and I don’t know how anyone can turn Gideon Prewett from the Chaser he was when he left Hogwarts to the utter bilberry he is now, but you’ve managed it. You’ve got some incredible talent on that team. So yeah—“ Peter swallowed and glanced at Sirius, a half-apologetic smile on his face— “I am here because I want a job. I want Mundungus Fletcher’s job, and I want to prove that I can turn a team around. No hexes, no cheating, just hard work.”

“Stirring stuff,” smiled James. “And perfect timing, because we and Mundungus have… parted ways.”

“Oh?”

“Call it a conflict of creative visions,” Sirius interjected, brushing away crumbs from James’ pastry that had somehow ended up on his trousers. He wanted to move the conversation swiftly away from Mundungus. “You know, if you take this job, you’ll have to get on with Frank Longbottom, too.”

“Is that difficult?”

“Depends if he’s eaten or not.”

Peter laughed again, something dancing in his eyes now that Sirius recognised: a spark that said Peter appreciated a little mischief, a little humour. That settled the concern that swirled in Sirius’ stomach, because he wanted the Quidditch team to be a success almost more than anything else in the world. It wasn’t because of his personal investment in it; he enjoyed Quidditch, naturally, and who wouldn’t want their team to play well and bring in sponsorship? But it was more than that—the reason that Sirius wanted it to be a success so much was because of James. He thought the world of James; _owed_ him the world, Sirius would muse late in the night, when he thought about how lost he’d been before the Potters had taken him him, how broken he and Marlene had been before James had shown them another way.

“It sounds like you’re keen, then…” Nervousness flitted over Peter’s features again as he glanced between Sirius and James. “You know, for me to give this a shot." 

Sirius looked over at James. An almost imperceptible gesture of his head told Sirius that James was in. Peter was coming to the Kestrels.

“Yeah,” Sirius said slowly, turning his attention back to Peter. “We’re keen. What do you say to a month’s trial? Starting… well, starting from now. Fifteen galleons a week, to start with.”

“That—that’d be incredible. Thank you!” Peter looked like someone had just surprised him with a Boggart, but in the best way. Sirius shook that odd thought from his mind. 

“We’ll see you at the Dell, then,” beamed James.

“Yeah…” Peter said softly, before his face broke into an earnest, gap-toothed grin. “Yeah, you will.”

Sirius glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece, noting how the minutes moved ever-closer to one o’clock. _Alphard_. He pushed himself to his feet, and held out a hand to Peter. “Then it’s a deal. We’ll owl you over the temporary contract, and make sure that everyone at the Dell knows to expect you. I’m sorry to rush this, Peter, only I’ve got somewhere to be at one.”

“No, no, not at all.” Peter shook Sirius’ hand firmly, and then reached for James’. “I completely understand.”

They said their goodbyes, and Sirius had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from chuckling at the excited way that Peter threw his cloak around his shoulders, the way he bounced on the soles of his feet and chattered happily at the plans he had. Then, with a wave and another cheery grin, Peter was gone.

Looking at the doorway through which Peter had just vanished, Sirius finally allowed himself a grin. He turned to James and clapped him on the back, pleased to see the same look of shocked delight across James’ face. “Well, that’s a turn up for the books, eh?”

“You can say that again. What a coincidence, us talking about contacting him and then he turns up here.” James stretched his arms above his head and his shoulder clicked. “Really feels like this is meant to be, you know?”

Sirius hummed, and checked his watch again. He moved over to the coat stand and pulled their coats off it, handing James’ over to him. “You know, I think it might be time for a dinner party.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been a while since we hosted, no? Might be nice to have our new coach over to meet the gang.”

“Invite your redhead, too,” Sirius grinned wickedly at James, who rolled his eyes.

“She’s not my redhead.”

“Not yet.”

“That mean you’ll be inviting your chap Lupin from the other night?” James cast a quick _Impervius_ over himself in preparation for them stepping outside.

“If he’s still in town, he wasn’t around the other night at the Auror. I might ask Kingsley what his deal is. Anyway, for now,” said Sirius, tucking his wand behind his ear as he pulled on his jacket, “we’ve got a meeting with Uncle Alphard to get to.”

James held the door open and bowed dramatically. “After you.”

“Don’t do that, Jem, or I’ll start getting used to it,” grinned Sirius.

“What, you’ll get used to someone doing all the work for you? That’ll make a change.”

“ _Rude_.”


	7. A Family Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and James investigate further with a visit to Sirius' Uncle Alphard.

Sirius and James ducked their heads down, collars up against the rain. They traced a familiar route; back down the alley, past Florian’s and Flourish and Blotts, towards the large spectre of Gringotts rising out of the rainstorm in the distance. Sirius was, for once, glad of the weather. Fewer people out in the street meant fewer people to stop and chat to them, and it meant fewer people who might see them going inside when they got to their destination. The last thing Sirius needed were rumours spreading around London that not only was Regulus back, but Sirius had been seen going into the building of one Alphard L. Black.

Alphard’s offices were on the corner of Knockturn Alley and Diagon. They were in an unassuming building, much like Peregrine Games—a small set of steps up to a black front door, and three floors of neat sash windows above. Sirius hadn’t been inside in years, not since he’d left the family, but every time he had to walk past it, conflicting emotions of repulsion at his family and gratitude for his uncle played in the hollow parts of his chest. That day was no different.

“Let me do the talking, yeah?” Sirius said suddenly to James, looking left and right down the street.

James raised his eyebrows. “That sort of guy, is he?”

“No, I just—“ Sirius screwed up his face in frustration and let out a sharp sigh. “He’s very… weaselly. He won’t give us what we need unless we ask in the right way. It’ll be better coming from me.”

“We don’t have to do this, you know. We can figure something else out. Maybe I can talk to someone like Amos, see if he’s heard anything on the grapevine at the Prophet.”

“If you ask Amos Diggory, the whole of London will know by lunchtime.”

“It’s past lunchtime.”

“Exactly.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and then shook his shoulders back in resolve. He took the steps up to Alphard’s door two-at-a-time, James close on his heels. Lifting the door knocker—a silver twisted serpent, of course it was—he rapped twice, and they waited.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Sirius looked down having anticipated a house elf; instead he found himself looking at a wizard’s midriff.

“Can I help you?”

Sirius’ eyes flicked up into a face he hadn’t expected to recognise. Rodolphus Lestrange looked back at him, confusion on his features. His cousin’s husband was shorter than Sirius, but not by much; handsome, dark haired, with hooded eyes framed with dark lashes that always looked like anger was waiting to glitter in them.

“Can I help you?” Rodolphus repeated slowly. His tone wasn’t antagonistic. It was awkward, uncomfortable, as though Sirius had caught him in the act of doing something much more dreadful than opening a door.

“Er, is Alphard in?”

Rodolphus didn’t reply, only stepped back from the door and held out an arm to welcome them inside. The gesture was a stiff, strained one, and Rodolphus didn’t take his eyes off Sirius’ face as he did so. Sirius wondered—with irritation—if perhaps Rodolphus had some dealings with Orion that had gone sour, and the sight of Sirius had reminded him of them. Sirius was told so often how much he looked like his father.

They stepped across the threshold and into an airy hall with marble floors and tapestry-draped walls. In the centre of the room, set into the stone floor, was a crest—not the Black family crest, but Alphard’s personal one, with a hydra at its centre. Sirius was well-versed in the intricacies of wizarding heraldry; he’d been forced by Walburga as a child to memorise the entirety of _Oswyn Burke’s Hierarchy of Heraldry_. Pureblood parents paid high prices to have crests made for their sons, based on astronomers’ charts and seers’ predictions. Sirius didn’t think, though, that you needed much experience with heraldry to decipher Alphard’s crest, or its motto. _Cor Hydrae_. _The heart of the hydra_.

“Welcome to the belly of the beast,” Sirius muttered to James.

Across the hall stood the man they were there to see. Alphard had the same build as Sirius; tall, lithe, with sharp, angular features. His dark hair was greyer than the last time Sirius had seen him, more salt-and-pepper than jet black, but still thick and wavy. He carried himself differently to the other men in his family; he didn’t have the brutality of Orion, or the energy of Sirius, or the inherent isolation of Regulus. Alphard’s movements were fluid, elegant—delicate, even—and yet he seemed such a presence in that space.

“My darling nephew, what a pleasure.” Alphard walked towards them and embraced Sirius, planting a kiss on each cheek.

“Uncle A,” Sirius replied.

“And you brought company!” Alphard continued, turning to James and extending a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, young man. Alphard Black.”

James shook Alphard’s hand firmly. “James Potter, how do you do.”

“A Potter!” Alphard’s eyebrows shot up and the corners of his mouth turned up. “Goodness me, Sirius, I don’t think anyone quite so _estimable_ has ever set foot in my little establishment.”

“Oh yeah?” replied Sirius with a snort. “What he really means, Jem, is that he’s never had someone in here before whose whole family history contains no criminal records.”

“Oh, _meow_ , nephew. Put those claws away and come and have tea with me…” Alphard turned, gesturing for them to follow. Before he moved from the hall, he smiled indulgently at Rodolphus, who was still standing at the door with his hand on the silver handle, looking at them with confusion. “So lovely to catch up, Dolphus. Be in touch, won’t you?”

Rodolphus looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Sirius glanced at James, who offered him a questioning look and a subtle jerk of his head towards Rodolphus. Sirius replied silently with a shrug, and turned to follow his uncle. They crossed the hall, leaving Rodolphus still standing mute by the front door. Alphard led the two of them through an archway, waving his hand a little waspishly at the bodyguard standing tensely to one side, and into a long corridor beyond it, black doors on both walls leading the eye towards a short staircase at the end of the hall. The only sound was their shoes against the hardwood floor until they reached the stairs covered in thick cream carpet. A left turn followed by a right led them into a wood-panelled sitting room, where a elf stood waiting for Alphard’s instructions. 

“Wurble, we will need tea for three, if you please, and some of those lovely little macarons you made yesterday. The pistachio ones, not the vanilla.”

“Certainly, Master Black.” Wurble bowed low and vanished with a dull _snap_.

James and Sirius settled themselves on a velvet sofa the colour of the night’s sky. Little about the room had changed since Sirius was last there, which had to have been almost ten years. The furniture was the same; the great mahogany desk was still decorated with strange, gold instruments that whirred and spun of their own accord. Sirius didn’t actually know whether his uncle lived at the premises, or elsewhere—all he knew was that the neat sign outside that said _Alphard L. Black, Wealth Management Services_ was an out-and-out lie. That was, of course, unless wealth management was a catch-all term that included money laundering.

Alphard spoke from the armchair he had taken across the coffee table. “You’ll have heard your brother is returned to London.”

“Yeah, Walburga wrote to me. Even if she hadn’t… I ran into him outside the club on Saturday night.”

“Oh?” Alphard’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t think your little den of iniquity was Regulus’ scene.”

“ _Please,_ like you’re not entertaining half the pureblood men in London on a Friday night.”

There was a snap as Wurble reappeared in the room, laden with a tray that swayed dangerously in her hands. Once he was sure she was not about to drop the whole thing, Alphard returned his attention to Sirius, while the elf set out platters of macarons and delicate pastries on the coffee table.

Alphard chuckled. “My darling nephew, there was no judgement in that; my proclivities are well known. Perhaps I’m a little more subtle in my dealings, though, than investing in a swingers club…”

Sirius shrugged. “Why bother if you’re not bold about it?”

“And _that_ is why you were never meant to be a Slytherin.” Alphard reached forward and helped himself to one of the dainty macarons on the plate before them. “So, you’ve corrupted your brother, have you?”

“No, he wasn’t there as a customer. A pack of Ministry bastards rocked up— _unofficially_ , of course—and he was hanging around outside. He told me about Alecto Carrow.”

“Yes,” chuckled Alphard, “that did come as a surprise. You know she was engaged to the younger Lestrange? I imagine that will lead to some uncomfortable encounters at family Christmases, what with dear Rodolphus being married to your cousin. I can hardly wait.”

“Rather you than me.”

“Though, it is unusual for Regulus to be conspiring with the Ministry bastards, as you so eloquently put it,” Alphard frowned, macaron pausing in the air. “That’s not like him.”

“Not like him?” Sirius asked. “Been keeping in touch, have you?”

“Temper, Sirius, temper,” tutted Alphard, and bit into the delicate pistachio macaron.

“Milk, Master Sirius?”

Sirius glanced down at where his uncle’s elf was looking at him expectantly. While Sirius didn’t _loathe_ house elves in quite the way other pureblood witches and wizards seemed to do, there was something about them that unsettled him. Perhaps it was the strange relationship he’d watched blossom between his mother and Kreacher, he thought. When it came to Wurble, however, Sirius knew that the really unsettling thing was the fact the elf’s huge right eye was a pale, cloudy blue colour, almost milky. He swallowed.

“No,” Sirius shook his head, “no, thank you. Black, with a slice of lemon.”

“Very good, sir,” Wurble replied.

Alphard had finished his macaron, and brushed the crumbs from his waistcoat as he asked Sirius his next question. “And your paramour, is she well?”

“Marlene’s very well, thank you.”

“I saw a report in the Prophet about her,” Alphard said, nodding towards a newspaper on one of the side tables. “It seems she’s quite the Quidditch player. Beautiful, too. Does she like to come with you to that little club of yours?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously asking me about my sex life over tea and macaron?”

“There are only so many opportunities to gossip with you, my darling nephew, I have to take every chance I get.” Alphard turned his attention to James as Wurble hurried over, holding the teapot aloft. “You were a player in your Hogwarts days, weren’t you, Mr Potter? Did you ever think about playing professionally?”

James took the cup that Wurble was holding out to him with a smile and a word of thanks. He looked back at Alphard. “I thought about it,” he said carefully, “but I had an injury in my final year that put paid to that idea. I took up a column with the Prophet instead.”

“A journalist?” Alphard’s eyebrows shot up, and his eyes flicked back to Sirius, something in them glinting and dangerous. “I thought Sirius had too many secrets to be friends with journalists. Loose lips, and all that.”

“Sports reporter,” continued James curtly. “Not many secrets in Quidditch, I’m afraid.”

“No?” Alphard’s lips quirked with amusement. “That surprises me.”

James shifted in his seat, and Sirius could tell he was getting frustrated. James didn’t, of course, understand. All Sirius’ encounters with Alphard were like this—they’d been like this for his entire life. Alphard was a slippery man; not cruel, not by the Blacks’ standards, but not honest, either. He revelled in the pretence at decorum—the tea, the polite enquiries about Marlene, the purring way he’d welcomed them in the hall—because to Alphard, encounters like this were like a duel. You had to play by the rules of the game.

“So,” Alphard said finally, once the elf had bowed low, backing out of the room.

“So,” repeated Sirius.

Alphard raised his cup to his lips, but paused before taking a sip. He eyed his nephew over the rim. “This isn’t a family reunion, is it, Sirius? You want something from me. How much?”

“I don’t want your money, Uncle A,” laughed Sirius. Something about that remark seemed to lighten the atmosphere in the room, and Alphard chuckled.

“I wish you’d told me that when you were sixteen.”

Sirius made a face at his uncle. It was hardly a secret that Alphard had given Sirius the money he needed to make his escape from the clutches of his mother. “I’ve got a problem, and I think you’ll know where to start.”

“Well, I’m all ears.”

“We’ve got a problem with our coach, Mundungus Fletcher. Well, I should say ex-coach, I suppose,” Sirius said, “because we’ve not heard from him since our game at the weekend when we found out that Dung’s been keeping something pretty fucking huge from Jem and I. Game-changing, I think you might say.”

“I thought there weren’t—what was it?” Alphard looked at James with a raised eyebrow for a moment. “ _Many secrets in Quidditch_.”

Sirius slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out the evidence. He threw the cracked notebook onto the table in front of Alphard and watched him pick it up. “It turns out our coach has been taking a little extra income on the side, in return for his services. Only, his services seem to be adding a little something to our players’ pre-match pumpkin juice, and, well, the results haven’t been pretty. We’re about to be relegated, we’re leaking sponsors like we’re a bucket with holes, and I’m counting down the days until our players decide a bar job at the Leaky would be more cost-effective.”

“Merlin’s beard…” Alphard muttered, scanning the pages. He looked sharply up at Sirius. “If you think _I_ had something to do with this, I can assure you that despite our differences, Sirius, I wouldn’t betray family like this.”

Sirius held up his hands. “Not why I’m here.” He jerked his head to his right, to where James was sitting beside him. “Jem made the good point that if someone’s paying him just to make a bit of cash—betting against the outcome, that sort of thing—then it couldn’t be a legitimate bookkeeper who’s taking the bets. You know how strict the Ministry are about that sort of thing. So, that led us to the conclusion that it’s under the counter, not regulated, and that—“

“Led you to me,” finished Alphard. He smiled a little indulgently, and handed the notebook back to Sirius. “I shall pretend not to be mildly hurt by that. I don’t tend to engage in petty crime.”

“No, yours tend to be more white collar crimes, don’t they?”

“My reputation precedes me.”

Sirius laughed. “That’s an understatement. Any ideas, then?”

“Well, I know people who like to engage in a little off-the-books gambling; nothing serious, mind you, and nothing really in the realm of what you’re suggesting.” Alphard hummed and tapped his middle finger against his thumb as he thought. “There’s Travers, but he’s about as intelligent as the back end of a Skrewt, there’s no way he’d be able to pull off something like that. Same with Pius Thicknesse—thick by name, thick by nature, despite running a Ministry department.”

“Why does that not surprise me? The Ministry’s full of idiots.”

Alphard chuckled. “Well, quite. Out of curiosity, though, doses of _what_?”

“Snarfalump root.”

“ _Really?_ ” Alphard seemed to lean a little closer in his chair, his voice curious, almost excited.

“You know it?” Sirius frowned.

“Certainly, if only for the fact it’s hard to come by. Not impossible, of course, but it’s not exactly the sort of drug you’d find with your average dealer.”

“Oh?”

“Expensive, you see,” Alphard continued. He glanced idly at his pocket watch and slipped it back into the opening on his waistcoat. “It doesn’t fly off the proverbial shelves like Doxy Drops or alihosty; it’s not an upper. Whoever supplied it has to do good business, to cover their overheads.”

“You have any names?”

“You won’t like them.”

“Try me.”

Alphard pursed his lips. He took a sip of tea and looked at Sirius. “Off the top of my head, there’s one from my side, and one from… yours.”

Sirius bit back the urge to get up and shake his uncle. What was it about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black that all its members insisted on being so very cryptic? He sighed. “Who’s the one on your side, then?”

“Rodolphus Lestrange.”

“Fuck.”

“Quite.”

Sirius thought about the face of the man who had just opened the door to them. Remarkably, he hadn’t looked sneering or contemptuous; something about him had been… ashamed. Yes, that was it— _shame_ was the defining feature of Rodolphus Lestrange’s body language. Sirius had never been close to Rodolphus, even when he was still in the Black family fold and Rodolphus got engaged to Bellatrix. They were an odd couple—Bellatrix was loud, brash, a crashing cymbal of a person with no nuance or subtlety to her whatsoever. Sirius had often thought that was why Walburga and Bellatrix were such good friends; they encapsulated the mania of the Black family inbreeding like no one else.

Rodolphus, though, was not loud. Some would describe him as calculating, Sirius assumed; all that stoicism in a Lestrange surely had to indicate cogs whirring behind the scenes and rich ideas about to be made manifest. Most people would consider him a perfectly courteous person, if a little quiet. His eyes, though—there was something about his eyes. There was something about his eyes that told Sirius that, behind the polite smiles and the quiet conversations, there was a man who had anger running through his veins.

Sirius took another sip of tea and set his cup back on its saucer. “Go on, then. Who’s the one from our side?”

Alphard didn’t speak. He pursed his lips and let out a long, slow sigh. Finally—

“Caradoc Dearborn.”

Beside him, Sirius heard James let out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh. “What?” James asked. “The Doc?”

“Yes, I believe that’s what he calls himself.” Alphard looked at James as though he’d only just remembered he was there.

“No way,” James shook his head, “absolutely no way. The Doc would never. You’re telling me _Caradoc Dearborn_ —the man who smokes a violet pipe, for Merlin’s sake—is going behind our backs to make money with Mundungus Fletcher by spiking our Quidditch team?

“Men with violet pipes can be complicated too, you know; ostentatious attire hardly precludes one from having secrets, and can often act as a most effective disguise.” Alphard took another sip of tea. “Anyway, the point, Mr Potter, is twofold. First, there is the issue of who is supplying snarfalump root to your former coach; Caradoc Dearborn is only one name I have suggested, and there may be more. The second and perhaps more important point, is _why_. Mr Dearborn might be quite unaware of what his little _prescription_ is doing.”

“You think he’d do it?” James asked Sirius. “You think the Doc would supply Dung?”

Alphard dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and smiled that same indulgent smile as he watched James and Sirius parse the idea of the Doc being Mundungus’ dealer. “Look, let me make some enquiries; I’ll be discreet, of course. There’s not many people in London who have the sort of capital to spend on snarfalump root, and who’d actually choose to do so. There are much better things available if you’re so inclined.”

Sirius allowed himself a small smile. Alphard would know about those sort of things, wouldn’t he? Sirius had known that Alphard was the original black sheep of the family long before he’d become one; whispered discussions between his parents about _removal from the tapestry_ floated to the front of his mind, as though that constituted the very worst punishment a person could receive.

“I suppose it’ll be someone with cash to spare and an agenda against me,” said Sirius.

“Oh, that’ll narrow down the list of suspects nicely,” Alphard quipped with a roll of his eyes. “Only half of London has cash to spare.”

Sirius chuckled bitterly, but something in the air had shifted. The look on Alphard’s face, the way he drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, it all spoke to him thinking hard on the problem that Sirius had presented him with, and disliking the answers. Sirius wasn’t surprised. London had been different in the past couple of years; it started as a whisper among the streets, but the voices were getting louder now, warning that all this suspicion and tension was only the beginning. Sirius couldn’t help but wonder if this problem with Mundungus was only the beginning of his problems, too.

“Something’s coming, isn’t it?” Sirius couldn't stop the question from tumbling forth from his lips.

Alphard pursed his lips, letting out a long, slow breath from his nose. “Yes,” he said eventually, eyes locked on Sirius’. “Something’s coming. I rather think they’ll talk about these days as a golden era, you know. Some… moment when we were all on the inside, looking out.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been on the inside.”

Alphard barked out a laugh. There was a glint in his eyes, and for the first time that day, Sirius thought it might be one of wickedness or malice. “Oh Sirius, my dear boy,” he said, the words silky smooth, “there won’t be a day in this life when you are not on the inside. You and Mr Potter both—“ Alphard nodded at James. “You’re swimming with money and wealth and privilege, and I _promise_ you, whatever comes of this will be easy for you to bear. Spare a thought for others, would you, in the midst of all your self-pity? There are plenty of people who will suffer far more than we will.”

Sirius felt his face flush. “What’s this _we_ , Uncle A?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Alphard raised an eyebrow and his cup stilled in the air again. “You’re rather good at falling back on… family connections when it suits you. Now, I’m afraid I would love to entertain you longer, boys, but I’m expected at Gringotts for a meeting. Share prices in goblin-made ironwork have _plummeted_ recently.”

Sirius understood that to mean their dismissal. He stood, James mirroring his movement, and looked at his watch. They had enough time to go back to the office, but Sirius wasn’t sure he wanted to. If he was quite honest, he wanted to go to the Leaky Cauldron for a stiff drink or seven, and then maybe even swing by the Auror to see if there was anyone interesting there, despite the fact it was Monday. He wanted to get out of his head for a little bit. Sirius glanced at James and idly wondered if he could convince him to come up to Sirius’ study when they got home, slip off their clothes and lose themselves in one another for a little while. That thought was whisked from his mind by the sound of his uncle’s voice.

“You really think you’re on the right side, don’t you, Sirius?” Alphard asked softly. He looked regretful, as though he was embarrassed by his earlier harshness. “In all this… madness, you think you’ve picked the right side.”

“Yes,” replied Sirius. “Don’t you?”

“I hope I’ve chosen the winning one.”

Sirius let out a soft snort. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Alphard said slowly, and got to his feet, “but there is a price to pay for the kind of society you want, and I’m not sure the costs are worth it.”

“How can we know if we don’t try?”

Alphard stepped out from behind the coffee table and opened his arms. That same emotion that Sirius always associated with Alphard hummed beneath his skin as he looked at his uncle—disappointment. Disappointment that Alphard walked so close to the line of goodness, but would never cross it; disappointment for all the things that Alphard _could_ be, if only he tried. He didn’t share Sirius’ way of seeing the world and that hurt. Sirius had always hoped that Alphard—like Regulus—might learn the painful melody of transformation, just as he had.

Sirius embraced his uncle. “Thanks, Uncle A.”

Alphard patted Sirius’ cheek as they stepped apart, a little sadness on his face. “Go well, Sirius,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”


End file.
